


Going Rogue

by coplins



Series: Volatile Chemistry 'Verse [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (No major characters are racist but ppl in the world are and they encounter them), Action, Anger, Battle for Dominance, Bitterness, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Body Paint, CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR FUTURE CHAPTERS IN VOLATILE CHEMISTRY, Cheating, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Crimes & Criminals, Daddy Kink, Drinking, Drug Abuse, Dubious Morality, F/M, Friendship/Love, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hurt/Comfort, I'm sure..., Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jealous Sasha, Jealousy, Knifeplay, Lies, Love Hurts, M/M, Major Character Injury, Major Original Character(s), Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mentions of past child abuse, Mind Games, Mindfuck, Murder, Murder Husbands, NO MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH!!!!, Not completely canon compliant lore, Okay you get the basic idea... they're not nice guys doing nice things, Organized Crime, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POSSIBLY TRIGGER HEAVY, Painplay, Paranoia, Past sexual child abuse, Pining, Plot Twists, Possessive Behavior, Racist Slurs, SEQUEL TO THE CROATOAN, Scheming, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Severe Mental Illness, Slurs, Smoking, Supernatural Elements, Swearing, Twisted Minds, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Villains, Violence, Who knew huh? I didn't see the Daddy kink coming, but close enough, but in a way still healthy for who they are?, did I mention murder? People are dying folks!, even if no one is getting married I'm gonna go ahead and throw in, graphic gore, inflated ego, it's complicated - Freeform, just because it kind of fits, mentions of sexual abuse, normalised violence, push and pull, split loyalties
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-29 12:53:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 23
Words: 140,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6375544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coplins/pseuds/coplins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sasha's been in South America for two years when Doug calls him back to the US. Two years with his new status as a General has influenced him a lot. Not necessarily to the better. He places himself chin deep in the Sin-Božji internal politics, juggling a lot of secrets and setting a lot of personal goals. His loyalty is possibly no longer as unquestioning as it once was, and he's yanking threads that will affect Luci and his gang back in Twin Towns, as well as the rest on the Sin-Božji family.  He also rekindles his old friendship with Michael which is quite an emotional ride, as the last two years hasn't been kind to Michael.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Return

**Author's Note:**

> I warn for spoilers for Volatile Chemistry, but I realised that some may choose to follow Mikey and Sasha as main characters in this journey, so therefor I go ahead and start posting this either way. Since I doubt anyone that reads this hasn't read "The Croatoan", you already know that these are not healthy well adjusted characters living fluffy lives. But if it somehow passed you by - it's not. These are cold blooded killers, make no mistake. Their version of "fluff" does not match up with the general public's. Nor does their view of respect and acceptance. This may be trigger heavy. I hope so. Heh.
> 
> **READ THE TAGS FOLKS!**

# Oh, how far the mighty have fallen…

* * *

He smells him first. It’s funny how you can recognize a scent anywhere and be thrown back seven years in time in the blink of an eye. Somebody squeezing past your shoulder in a milling crowd, you don’t even see them, just catch a hint of their scent…

He has to fight the impulse to let his arm shoot out to catch Castiel by the arm, pull him close and say “You promised me, Princess. You and me against the world, _forever_.” He doesn’t. Instead he follows closely at his back, pulse skyrocketing and feeling things he isn’t used to feeling. Castiel stops and lets a family with small children pass. He looks older. More mature. More beefy than he was when they met. Not a surprise considering he was 19 back then and he’s 26 now. His hair is short and dark these days. It doesn’t change the fact that he still wants to grip Castiel’s hair and hold onto it every night he goes to sleep. He wonders why it’s so hard to breathe. His breath keeps hitching and stuttering. He ducks behind a pillar when Castiel turns around, sensing he’s being watched. _Good boy. Still alert._ Using people in the crowd as shields he changes his position. He sees Castiel squint suspiciously at the pillar he’d ducked behind, then go to peek behind it. _That’s my Princess._ After all these years Castiel still picked up on the odd one out in a crowd, trusting his gut feeling or whatever guides him. When Castiel starts moving again he follows.

* * *

**2014**

* * *

` You're gone and I gotta stay`  
`High all the time`  
`To keep you off my mind`  
`Ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh`  
`High all the time`  
`To keep you off my mind`  
`Ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh`  
`Spend my days locked in a haze`  
`Trying to forget you babe`  
`I fall back down`  
`Gotta stay high all my life`  
`To forget I'm missing you`  
`Ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh`  


### April 4th - Thursday

“Fuck, Mikey. Are you high?” is the first thing Sasha says as he enters the room and spots Michael on the red couch. He looks like shit. The two years since Sasha last saw him, has been rough on Mikey. He may be as fit as ever, but looks pale, drawn, and the light has gone out of him. The question if he’s high is superfluous. There’s two lines of coke on the glass table in front of him and traces of at least two lines already taken. “You shouldn’t touch that shit.”

“Know your place, croat,” Mikey sneers and scowls at him. If there’s anything left of little boy Mikey, Sasha doesn’t see it. “How’d you get in anyway?”

Sasha snorts and kicks his shoes off. He is still reeling from seeing Castiel up close without a shirt on. The newly carved ‘Croatoan’ on his upper arm made Sasha want to scream. He had done what he could to let Castiel live a normal life, and the asshole had gone right back to it. Worse was the realisation that he still wanted the younger man back for a whole other reason than punishing him, despite it being seven fucking years since their last night together. “Pfft. I know my place, Mikey. It’s by your side. As your friend.” He takes off his jacket and throws it on an armchair with the same loud red colour as the couch. The holster with the guns goes there too. Everything in Mikey’s apartment is vibrantly colourful. It’s like being inside a paint box. “By the look of it you need one. You look like shit. You’ve got beer?”

Mikey shakes his head. “No. Go for the hard stuff.” He points at the glass liquor cabinet that holds a wide array of liquor. Everything from expensive whiskey and cognac, flavoured vodka, liqueurs and whatnot. Mikey is a ticking timebomb. Sasha doesn’t give a shit. He’s too angry, hurt, and _jealous_. The jealousy seeps like poison through his veins. He goes straight for the cabinet and takes out a vodka bottle at random. Grey Goose cherry noir. He chugs it straight from the bottle. Cherry is one of Castiel’s favourite flavours, one of those little things he should have forgotten. Michael chuckles. “Pissy mood, huh? If it’s any consolation you look like you’ve aged backwards. You look good. Real good.”

“It’s not. And why didn’t you bring me home?” Sasha snaps testily as the vodka burns his throat and warms his stomach.

“It would have been too dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Sasha whirls around and stalks up to the table. He swipes a hand angrily through the coke on the table. “This shit is dangerous, Mikey. And it replaces _nothing_. At least if I was here we wouldn’t have been so fucking lonely. Now get to your feet and give me a hug. It’s been two fucking years.”

Mikey seems taken aback at first, but then he’s on his feet and clinging to Sasha in a fierce hug. For all he had sneered at Sasha when he came in, the hug is desperate and needy. No impersonal back slapping or restraint. Body pressed close, crushing, fingers digging in. It’s a few seconds of a silent scream for help. Then he lets go and steps away just as suddenly as he got up. “It’s good to see you, Alexandr. But you shouldn’t have come. We parted ways for a reason, remember?”

"They were the wrong reasons. Look at you! You're a mess."

Michael runs a hand through his hair and shrugs. “Aren’t we all?”

Sasha grunts and takes another drink of the vodka. He surveys the room and his eyes fall on a knife on the living room table. He takes it and hands it hilt first to Michael. “How about we blow some steam, huh? Indulge in our preferred tastes. Get a woman up here, get laid together, you get to carve, and I’ll get to taste blood while getting off for a change.” It’d turn to rape the moment Mikey brought his knife into play, but for once Sasha doesn’t care. Images of Castiel and the other guy still flashes before his inner eye, making him hate, burning away any sympathy for strangers.

“Is it just the blood you’re after? We don’t need no woman for that.” When Sasha doesn’t answer Michael takes the knife and makes a small cut on the pad of his left index finger. He eyes Sasha curiously and runs the bleeding finger over his lips, smearing blood like lipstick, just like Castiel had once done. It’s as much a plea as an offer, and now he’s waiting to see if Sasha will grant him his wish and accept. 

Sasha have come to accept a few things about himself during the past two years. 

One, there will most likely never be anyone new taking Castiel’s place in his heart. Not for as long as Castiel (“Cas” that green eyed prettyboy had called him, annoyingly enough Sasha thought it suited him) is alive. The hooks are buried deep and they’re _barbed_. 

Two, he is getting old, and though he will probably never retire from this lifestyle, the loneliness that began creeping upon him when Cas left had magnified with each year. Company from random strangers could no longer quench the feeling. He wanted closeness with somebody who knew him for who he was. Very hard for him to obtain considering he rarely developed strong emotional bonds to people, and his work forced him to constantly lie about who he was like he’d done with Jody. And with each year, as the loneliness got worse, he got colder, more jaded. Empathy for strangers was harder to muster up nowadays. 

Three, sex was sex no matter if it was with a man or a woman. He would always prefer women. No doubt about it. He could get sexually aroused by most women without even trying. With men? He wasn’t aroused by their bodies on sight. He wasn’t _turned off_ by them either, by all means. (Once upon a time yes, but no longer.) And once the touching started he got it up just fine. Granted, he hadn’t been with many men since Mikey. But a mouth was a mouth, a hole was a hole, and touch was touch. 

What Mikey is offering is physical closeness with somebody he loves, albeit as a friend, who knows him. It is intimacy as good as he is ever going to get, if he didn’t manage to win Castiel back somehow. Plus he offered indulgence of his bloodlust. What held him back for a beat was that it would be taking advantage of Mikey’s crushed state of mind. But it only held him back for a flicker of a moment. His own wants and needs overriding chivalry and ‘the right thing to do’. Friends or not, theirs was not a sound friendship, not since Mikey chose to send him away. Sasha’s consideration for his wellbeing shifts from high to low like waves on the ocean.

Sasha cups Mikey’s cheek and leans in to kiss him, sucking his lower lip into his mouth to get the blood off. It’s fucking aphrodisiac. And once they start kissing, Mikey’s hands stroking his back and nails scraping the hair in the nape of his neck, then the blood isn’t necessary any more. But then again, it never really was between them.

Kissing, nipping, licking, and biting they make it to the bedroom, losing their shirts on the way. Sasha gets an arm solidly under Michael’s back and carefully lays him him down on the bed, crawling them upwards. He kisses his way down Mikey’s smooth body, feeling more than a little self-satisfied at the hitched breaths, shivers, and goosebumps that elicits from the younger man.

It’s something of a shock taking Mikey’s pants off. He hooks his fingers inside Mikey’s pants and underwear by the hips and tugs them down, Mikey lifts his ass off the bed to help. Once the pants are past his thighs Sasha sucks his breath in and looks up sharply. Mikey just smirks and rolls his hips slowly, eyes glazed by drugs and desire. “For fucks sake, Mikey.”

Mikey sniggers and rolls his hips again. “Fuck you, croat. It makes me feel better. You wouldn’t understand.”

Sasha pulls the pants down the rest of the way, Mikey moving to ease the way. When Mikey is naked Sasha lays down between his legs, his head between the thighs, supporting himself on his elbows. Frowning, he looks at the thighs. Oh, he understands perfectly fine. He may not be a scholarly type except for when it comes to chemistry concerning drugs but he knows _this_. It’s no difference from him exerting himself physically to the point of pain when the craving for drugs get too much, or the loneliness unbearable. He runs his fingers over the hundreds upon hundreds of raised scars all over the thighs. Some are new, raw still. Some are healed. They weren’t there two years ago. Mikey lets his head drop back on the pillow and closes his eyes, keeping still to let Sasha touch and process.

“‘Ts a work of art isn’t it?” Mikey says sluggishly.

Sasha snorts and shakes his head despite Mikey not being able to see it with his eyes closed. This is not _art_. This is a silent scream of anguish by a tortured soul. This is a desperate attempt at control in a world crumbling in chaos, slipping through fingers. These are moments of feeling real when everything feels so unreal that you doubt you even exist. These are battle scars from a war constantly fought. Every day torn asunder within, until the need to see the pain inside is as much a compulsion as a relief.

Anger bubbles like lava under Sasha’s skin. He vows he’ll have _Otac’s_ head for this. Mikey doesn’t know it, because Sasha keeps the hot flare of hatred off his face, but this is the moment Sasha turns rogue. A lifetime of loyalty towards the _Porodica_ snap out of existence, extinguished like a candle. From this moment on he’ll make it his mission to avenge what has been done to the boys he came to love as children, those he still loves as adults. And those he didn’t care for would _all_ burn, one way or another. They wouldn’t see him coming. He files that thought away for later and kisses the scars softly, runs his tongue soothingly over them. Now’s not the time. Now it’s about him and Mikey getting off together, being close. As close as they could be with anyone at this point. Placecard holders for their real loves, but still close. He pays the same attention to both legs, kissing and caressing with gentle fingers and tongue. When he looks up at Mikey again, he has opened his eyes and is looking at Sasha with a semi-soft expression that Sasha can’t read. He’s twirling his knife between his fingers.

When he catches Sasha’s eyes he smirks, puts the blade against his pectoral and cuts a long shallow cut downward towards the middle of his chest, not showing any sign of pain whatsoever. It’s hard to tell if he’s just so good at schooling his features or if he’s totally numbed out by the drugs he’s been taking. There’s no telling whether he’s been taking other stuff beside the cocaine either, but by his sluggishness Sasha guesses he’s mixing wildly. Sasha stares mesmerized at the blood welling up from the cut, licking his lips when Mikey drags his fingers through it and smears it down his body and over his nipples. “Take your pants off. I want you to be naked,” Mikey instructs. Sasha does as he’s told without getting up, pulling them off with some awkward fumbling. “Good. Now have at it. I know you want to.”

Fuck but he does. He really does. 

It’s not quite right. Not quite what each of them needs. Mikey certainly doesn’t need someone who would stare greedily and desirous when he puts a knife to his own flesh. He needs someone who’d stop him. Who’d give him love and support and bring him back to life rather than enable his self-destruction. That isn’t Sasha. The only thing he could offer was to follow him along the way so he wasn’t alone. Hold his hand while he died by inner corruption, and avenge him once he is gone. What Sasha needs isn’t this either. He doesn’t know what he needs, it’d take an outsider’s point of view to figure that out. But he doesn’t _want_ to be ‘rehabilitated’. He’s certain it’s too late for the both of them. This, however, is what they want. Sasha is sane enough to recognise how fucked up that is. How fucked up it is that he gets upset by the scars on Mikey’s thighs but all but trembles from excitement at the bleeding wound on his chest. 

Sasha kisses his way up from the thighs, stroking the length of Mikey’s legs. They’re all firm muscle and covered by soft hair, totally unlike a woman’s. He doesn’t mind. He kisses the juncture between hip and leg, ignoring the cock leaking precome next to his cheek. Runs his tongue up the juncture to the hipbone, slowly working himself up to where Mikey has smeared blood over his stomach and chest. He sucks and bites lightly at the hipbone, drags his teeth over it and Michael gasps and rolls his hips, seeking friction he isn’t getting. “Shit that’s good,” Mikey mumbles encouragingly.

His legs and under his arms are the only parts of Michael that’s hairy, for the rest he’s completely shaved. He’s all smooth skin and muscles. He’s got scars on his torso too, but those come from the life he’s living, not from his own hand (save the one he’ll get from the cut he just made for Sasha’s benefit). There’s not an ounce of fat on him. It worries Sasha. If he wasn’t so built muscle-wise he’d be emaciated. He hasn’t been eating properly. Back in twin towns he’d still had a thin layer of fat that gave a softness to his curves instead of these sharp, sharp, angles. Sasha feels every twitch and contraction of the muscles under his tongue and lips as he licks and kisses his way towards the navel where the edge of blood is.

He heaves himself up higher for better reach, finally giving Michael the friction he craves by trapping his cock with his shoulder. Mikey ruts slowly, making breathy gasps that excites Sasha more than he’d think it would. The moment he laps up the first coppery tangs from Mikey’s salty skin he lets out an involuntary ‘ _Mmm…_ ’. Mikey’s hand comes to rest lightly on his head, nails scraping loosely in the nape of his neck, making him shiver in pleasure.

“Yes, that feels so good. _Fuck._ Lap it up. Your mouth’s so sweet. Stroke my sides, sweetheart. Just like that. You’re doing great. Feels so good.” Mikey starts running his mouth, praise, instructions, and endearments mixed with gaspy breaths as Sasha works himself upward. He gives himself over to lust. Mikey makes another cut parallel to the first and uses the blood from that one to smear his own throat and neck, a show of where he wants Sasha’s mouth to go.

Despite Mikey’s sharp angles it’s heady and electrical, setting Sasha on fire. He’s taking his time, making it a slow, hot burn, his cock hard and aching, still trapped against the bed. He laps at Mikey’s nipple, sucks it into his mouth to get that sweet sticky redness off it.

“ _Yes._ Nibble at it. God, that feels good, Lexi. Swirl your tongue. Now the other one… Fuck, _Lex…._ You’re fucking great. Go for the source now. Shit, yeah. I like that. Honey, you’re so beautiful. Shit. I’m a fucking slut for you ain’t I, Lexi? Keep sucking..”

_Lexi._

_Lex._

The Sin-Božji are notorious at giving each other nicknames. Every brother has at least one, often more than that. Mostly they’re derived from their names, but not always. Like Lukas who’s called Babyface. They care jack-shit if their nicknames sound feminine. Like Lulu, Julie, Brandy, Luci, and Dani. God help any outsider that dares call them that though. It’s too personal (Once again, Babyface is the exception. But call him Lulu and you’re dead). They never give nicknames to croats unless it’s mocking or if they use nicknames given by other croats. But the Lexi and Lex that slipped past Michael’s lips are laded with the familiarity that came with frequent use and affection. Sasha has never once heard him use it before though, and he wonders how long Mikey had been using those names for him in his head for them to be so familiar. When did Mikey really slip over the knife edge they’d been balancing on back in twin towns? Long before he took a bullet for Sasha probably. Maybe he’d even had those names for Sasha in his head since childhood.

Sasha sucks and licks gluttonously at the parallel cuts, eyes closed in pleasure as he ruts against Mikey’s thigh and slips a hand between them to close around Mikey’s cock. Mikey squirms underneath him, rolling his hips in time with Sasha’s strokes. He feels Mikey’s warm hand trail over his back, soon joined by the cold touch of the knife he’s holding in his other hand. Mikey either caresses his naked skin gently with the knife or puts pressure on it but angling the blade in such way it won’t penetrate, or just barely. The knife trails over the places where a cut would do the most damage―the soft skin by his sides where a stab would rupture intestines, places where major artery lie close to the surface and a single cut could lead to death, he pushes the tip in, nicks tiny shallow, wounds that barely stings between vertebras where if thrusted, it would sever the spine to cause paralysis.

There’s no reason to trust Michael not to suddenly make reality of it. He’s not sane. Too far gone to ever return to what he once was and could have been. Yet Sasha feels no fear, only heightened desire, mumbling incoherent words in Russian while his angel-pendant drags through the blood from the cuts, the bleeding slowly stemmed by his soothing tongue. He too is over the edge at the moment. Fucked up and fucked over by Castiel and the raw ‘Croatoan’ on his arm.

He climbs higher, licking and nipping at Mikey’s throat and neck. Both their breaths strained and ragged. Mikey’s clean shaven just like himself, no scratchy stubble to annoy. He grips Mikey’s hair with his hand not jacking off the man, and bends his head backwards, immediately feeling the bite of the knife nicking his skin at the dominant gesture. He ignores the sting and kisses Michael, sweeter than he intended to, before nipping at his lower lip and whispering in his ear, lips grazing the shell. “Я хочу быть внутри тебя, резчика.” (I want to be inside of you, carver.)

He feels Mikey tense up. “No.”

He’s not above begging when he’s this turned on, so he begs. “Пожалуйста, резчик. Позвольте мне пошел на хуй.” (Please, carver. Let me fuck you.)

“ _No._ I might accidentally kill you if you do.” The pressure of the knife is gone. Michael is still holding the knife in his hand but it’s angled away now and his running his hands up and down Sasha’s back, like he’s trying to soothe a nervous and dangerous beast to stop it from bolting or lashing out. 

But Sasha’s not the nervous one. His lust addled brain is slowly catching up that something is wrong, but not before one more plea slips out. “давай, резчик,” (come on, carver.) followed by a kiss while he twists his wrist, jacking Mikey off faster. He grinds himself against Mikey, his dick slipping easily in the mess of precome he’s leaked in the juncture between leg and hip, Mikey rolling up to meet his every grind and panting into the kiss.

“Fuck, Lex. I don’t know if I can.” What he says next would have been a cold shower if Sasha wasn’t as messed up as he currently is. Instead it just fuels the anger he has inside of him. “I haven’t bottomed for anyone since I was thirteen…”

Sasha pulls Michael up to straddle his thighs with a growl, so they’re both sitting upright. Anger is pulsing through his veins without lessening his arousal, possibly fuelling it on. He hisses between teeth as their cocks line up and drag together. He no longer wants to be inside of Michael. Well he does, on an animalistic level, but his head isn’t in it anymore. “Who? Who did you bottom for at that age?” He has his suspicions. If they prove to be true…

“It doesn’t matter.” Michael bends his head to the side, to expose his neck where Sasha hasn’t yet licked him clean, (an invite promptly taken), and grips the both of them in his hand, Sasha’s hand joining his jerking them off.

After that Sasha leaves the subject for the time being and lets this run it’s course, holding Mikey close, kissing, stroking, sucking and nipping. Michael does the same until they both spill over their joint hands, Mikey first, Sasha following. Afterwards they sit there for a while, each of their heads rested in the crook of the neck of the other until their breathing and heartbeats have calmed down.

Sasha pats his ‘Croatoan’ scar his shoulder. “Hit me?” he asks.

Michael doesn’t need him to clarify the request. “Mhm. Let me just…” he climbs off of Sasha and leaves the bed, letting the sentence hang. He comes back, all cleaned up, and throws Sasha a warm wet towel before leaving the room again. Sasha dries himself off as good as he can and throws the towel on the floor. Michael comes back again with a first aid kit, a roll of leather, and an ashtray. He’s got a cigarette hanging from his mouth but by the smell of it it isn’t tobacco.

“You shouldn’t be doing that shit,” Sasha says and waves his hand at the joint.

“Don’t care. You want some?”

Sasha shakes his head as Mikey sits down on the bed and pats the space beside him. “No.” _Yes._ He scoots to sit beside Mikey, legs over the side of the bed. Unless Mikey does this again, it’s possibly the last time he’ll let himself be marked. Michael turns so he’s sitting with one leg behind Sasha’s back and one over the edge, to be closer.

Michael chuckles. “Liar.” Sasha is about to answer but Michael leans in and kisses him. He’s not actually blowing smoke into his mouth, just letting it leak into the kiss. It takes every ounce of restraint Sasha has not to inhale. He exhales sharply as soon as Mikey leans back, only a vague aftertaste of hash remains in his mouth. Mikey sniggers. “Impressive. That’s some self-control you’ve got going there. I got to admit, I didn’t know until we’d had sex that you had a drug addiction, since I hadn’t seen true want in your eyes before. I can see the same want in your eyes now. It does explain your fascination with drugs. You never touch your own stuff?” He takes a hit on the joint and tilts his head curiously.

“No. I don’t touch anyone’s stuff. Neither should you. That shit will kill you,” Sasha grouses.

Mikey chuckles, small puffs of smoke escaping through his nose before he turns his head away to exhale in another direction. “And what a shame that would be,” he says sarcastically. His eyelids are heavy, his pupils dilated and his posture loose and relaxed. He has a content little smile playing on his lips. He puts the joint in his mouth and holds it there while he picks up the first aid kit, takes out a small bottle and a compress that he wets with it’s content. Then he dabs Sasha’s ‘Croatoan’-scar with it. It’s cold and immediately the area begins to numb.

“That’s nice of you,” Sasha remarks about the anesthetic.

“Yeah well. You don’t like this kind of pain,” Michael answers through the corner of his mouth, sucks in another big lungful of smoke and puts what’s left of the joint in the ashtray. He holds his breath for a while while he works to numb the skin thoroughly, then lets it out slowly in a direction away from Sasha. “And I’m planning to do this as beautifully as you deserve. You did call me rezchik, after all. So I’m gonna carve.”

резчик - the Russian word for carver, cutter, engraver, chiseler. In the throes of passion it had slipped out and fit into the mould of who Michael was with a knife in his hand. “It seemed fitting. And that sounds ominous, do I have to be scared?” Sasha jokes.

Mikey chuckles again, clearly high as a kite by now. “Probably. But you ain’t. And it’s going to be flawless. Just gonna undo the butchery that’s there already.” He ties gauze underneath to soak up the blood that will flow. The older the Croatoan is, the more personal a carving is to him. The first time it’s done by his mentor or in rare cases the Sin-Božji that approved him. After that the carving was renewed in semi-regular intervals by colleagues (or in very rare cases a Sin-Božji), often after a particularly difficult job, a near death, or a new skill mastered. It was also at times a bonding experience, thus not something a Croatoan would allow just any colleague to do once he had a couple of years of service.

“Sounds like numbing the skin ain’t going to be enough.” It sounds like Mikey’s intention is to cut quite deep and broader than usual. Carve away scar tissue to make the new scar only his own. Sasha is okay with that albeit a bit apprehensive. 

“You’ve got that magic jar of yours. I can get it for you. Or some booze?”

“No thank you. But if you’ve got some ordinary cigarettes I would like one of those.”

“Sure thing.” Michael slides off the bed and goes to fetch a pack of Camel and a lighter. Sasha lights up and starts coughing at first inhale. Obviously hilarious to Mikey who laughs heartily. It takes a couple of inhales before Sasha stops coughing. Only reason he wanted to smoke is to make his heartbeat and blood flow slower to reduce bleeding. It does have a calming effect though, since he so rarely smokes. Michael slides into place again, waiting for Sasha to be done with his first cigarette before continuing. He kisses Sasha’s shoulder, strokes his spine and runs his hand through the silver strands of his hair with a lazy smile on his face. “I think a tiny bit of you has healing powers, kinda like mercury,” he muses. His voice has become lighter and softer in the way drunk and high people get, indicating their vocal chords relaxing.

Sasha sniggers. “Yes. I’m also highly poisonous and lethal,” he smirks and winks at Mikey who chortles. Sasha envies him for letting go, and succumbing to the drugs. It’s a dumb thing to envy. Mikey is a dead man walking, he can see that. “You sure you can handle this well while high?”

“I handle everything well high nowadays. Without Luci…” Mikey shrugs. “Only thing I don’t handle well, is not being high.” He pats the scars on his thighs to make a point.

Sasha makes a noncommittal noise and squishes the cigarette butt in the ashtray. “I’m ready.”

Michael unrolls the leather roll he brought. Inside lies a row of tools. Scalpels, slender knifes, small hooks. They may be meant for torture but they look like the tools of a sculptor. By all means, one does not necessarily exclude the other. He chooses a scalpel-like blade, thin and slightly sickle shaped. Sasha doesn’t feel when he starts to carve and has to look. He is drawing outlines outside the rough jagged croatoan script. Making broader letters but in flowing script. Once he’s done sketching he dries the thin blood flow off like a tattoo artist. He studies it and makes a few embellishments before nodding to himself.

“It matters, you know. Who you bottomed for,” Sasha says suddenly.

Michael’s eyes flick to his for a beat before going back to his work. “Why?” he ask and and trades instrument.

“Because this is as close as both you and I have been to making love with anyone for years, and you couldn’t let me go there for fear of triggering and, I quote, accidentally kill me. I know there are some of you boys who are lovers as well as brothers and I won’t say anything about that,” Sasha breaks off, hissing between his teeth as he feels the first bite of pain. He turns his head to see if Mikey is doing it as a response to what he’s saying but Mikey is listening with a serene and content expression while deftly cutting the corners of every letters, digging in deep and tilting the blade so the cuts meet in a V-shape under the skin. Sasha keeps talking then, voice straining a bit. “If I was raised like you I’d probably search for love where I could get it too. But two things. 13. It’s too young. And secondly but more importantly, if you were into it you would not be averse to a repeat performance. But you are. You think you’re going to trigger. So who was it?”

Michael puts some liquid on a new compress and dabs the wounds, then holds it firm against them. It _burns_. He looks up and meets Sasha’s gaze but keeps quiet. His expression is an odd mix of sadness and contentment. Sasha reaches out for the pack of cigarettes, takes one using his mouth and lights it. He may be very good at ignoring pain, but he does not enjoy it. Mikey removes the compress. The bleeding has stopped. He takes up a new tool and holds it up so Sasha can see. It’s a tiny blade bent in a diamond shape and attached to a handle big as a pen. “This is the part that’s going to hurt. I’m going to thread the edges I just cut through the hollow part in the middle, and then scoop out the old scar tissue from underneath it. You ready for that?”

Sasha nods and takes a new drag on the cig. He lets out the smoke in a hiss when he feels Michael start. He soon gets the pain under control though, except from sweat pouring forth making him feel cold, clammy, and slightly nauseated. He doesn’t let Mikey leave the subject. “If it was Pete or Tyler it’d be one thing. They’re only a year older than you. Or even if it was Liam, Leo, or Babyface who are a year younger. But it wasn’t, was it?”

Michael keeps carving silently, small bloody worms of scar tissue falling onto the bed below the arm. He may appear to be ignoring Sasha, but Sasha can see he’s listening and thinking. 

Sasha smokes in silence and puts out the cig before he speaks up again. “It was Addi, wasn’t it?”

The way Michael suddenly stops for a while before resuming his work is answer enough.

“When did it start?”

To Sasha’s surprise Mikey actually answers, a floating quality to his voice. “He was after Luci, you know. Luci was special. He always was. We all adored him from the start. He was just different… it’s hard to tell what it was about him that drew us in. But even as a toddler he was different. Smarter than the rest of us. Quieter. Always watching the world as if he understood it beforehand. And god was he stubborn. Even _you_ know that.” He talks while he works, focusing on what his hands are doing with a soft expression. “But even as a very small child he was somewhat touch averse, and would throw violent fits of rage if anyone crossed him or touched him the wrong way. He didn’t like to be kissed for an instance. Fuck, if you ever got a kiss from him it was more precious than the Cullinan diamond.”

“I remember him being just as much of a cuddler as the rest of you?” Sasha interjects.

“Well, yeah. To a degree,” Michael agrees. “He liked being the bottom of a TV-pile, or just be huddled together. He liked playfighting and tickle fights, the kind of hugs and slaps that came with playing sports. And he liked to touch. But from afar.”

“That odd thing he does when he walks by you and kind of poke at you with two fingers?”

“He did that to you?” Mikey raises his eyebrows in surprise, but with a soft smile declaring he finds it a positive thing.

“As a child, yes. When I worked a lot with him on the shooting range.”

“He liked you a lot then. It’s a strong sign of affection.” Michael nods as if this satisfies him immensely and looks back at his handiwork.

“I remember him stopping me once, telling me to get my knees. When I did he touched my hair, scrutinized it with great intensity, humming to himself before telling me I could go.”

Mikey chuckles. “We all were fascinated with your hair at one point or another as children. I think I’m even more so now that I know that the hair on your chest and between your legs is without any hints of grey. You sure you didn’t get bit by a vampire and stopped aging? That would explain so much,” he jokes.

“I think I would have noticed,” Sasha smirks. “So Addi had his eyes set on Luci?” he prompts.

“Yes. Addi, Saul, Mal, and sometimes Demi were going at it more often than not. Addi and Saul were fucking like rabbits. They didn’t hide it from the rest of us. Addi especially tried to entice us to join. He… anyways. Like I said. Luci was very averse to the kind of touching Addi preferred. And then Addi decided that he wanted to take what he wanted either way. To show Luci how much he loved him as he put it. I stopped him…”

Michael falls quiet then and puts down his tool. He drenches another clean compress with the blood stopping solution and presses it against the wounds he’s carved. He has retreated into his head with a faraway look. The solution _burns_ , setting the wounds on fire, and Sasha gasps, muscles clench, and another wave of cold sweat hitting him. “Almost done,” Mikey says quietly as if he’s talking to himself. He holds the compress in place for a few minutes before he removes it and takes up another scalpel. He gets to work, but now it’s more like he’s drawing, putting in finishing touches of elaborate curves and flourishing lines.

“When was this?”

“I was eight.”

Sasha sucks in a sharp breath, every muscle tensing again and he has to strain to remain still. He doesn’t hold back the enraged string of swearwords in Russian though. “You’re telling me that Addi was going after Lucifer when he was fucking _five_?! That motherfucker!” Addi was fucking fifteen at the time. No wonder Mikey was broken.

“Yes. I made a bargain with him that he could do as he pleased with me as long as he didn’t touch Luce.”

“And he never did?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“What happened when Lucifer was ten, to make you withdraw your offer?”

“He got baby. Even as a puppy she’d growl and show her teeth if Addi came too close. And she grew fast. Addi was afraid of her. Rightfully so, I’d say. Plus Luci had his violent temper flares. He might have slit Addi’s throat, brother or not.”

“ _Otac_ didn’t know, or didn’t stop it?”

“He encouraged it. We are not allowed to love anyone outside. Fuck? Yes. Obviously. But not love.”

“Did _Otac_ ever―”

“No. According to him that kind of love is reserved for brothers, not fathers.”

“ _Why_ are you still loyal to them?”

“I love my brothers. Even if I don’t want them quite that way. I mean, kissing sure, or sharing a girl like you and I did. But I’m not wholly comfortable with going all the way, no matter what _Otac_ says. Unless I’m in a post kill haze, then I don’t really care about anything. But I really do love my brothers, my uncles, and _Otac_.”

“Does Lucifer know what you did? About Addi?” 

Michael shakes his head and puts down the scalpel. He washes the new wounds with antiseptic and uses more burning blood stopper. “No. He was just a child. He didn’t need to know.” 

_So were you. And you let yourself be raped repeatedly by your seven year older brother to protect Luci. He deserves to know._

“He grew up. Why didn’t you tell him?” Mikey is surprisingly forthcoming. Probably because of all the drugs he’s filled himself up with, combined with a soul that is dying within. They’re friends alright, but this is different than it was two years ago. Michael has snapped, cracked, held together by the thinnest of threads. Sasha has no problem taking advantage of this, digging for information. 

“He would have killed Addi.” Michael says offhandedly and washes the other small nicks he’s made on Sasha’s body during their tryst.

 _And now I will kill him instead_ , Sasha vows. He doesn’t say it. Going rogue is a huge decision. Once unthinkable, yet now so, so easily made. The _Porodica_ is falling apart from within and _Otac_ is the one responsible. The man who once built the Empire is tearing it apart and god knows why. Maybe because of boredom. Maybe he doesn’t want to share his power once he can no longer be around to supervise. Maybe he just wants to play out some sick version of last man standing. Listening to Mikey now, it hits Sasha that this has been a game long in play. _Otac_ had separated every pair of brothers that were closer than the others. Addi and Saul had been close as kids, Sasha knew that, even if it was news to him that they’d been lovers since their early teens. Addi was sent to Australia and Saul to Brazil. Leo and Liam were twins and Leo was killed. Lucifer and Michael had been put in an impossible situation that broke them apart. How many of the others? The Sin-Božji family was good at keeping secrets, even from Croatoans at the Heart. Working under the assumption that _Otac_ had set this up to pit brother against brother and then lean back to watch the war, it served his purposes that Lucifer, the only one openly in rebellion, kept to himself far away from his brothers and the _Porodica_ business. He’d speak up otherwise. Others might listen and then _Otac’s_ plans would fall apart. What’s to say that what happened before the Purge wasn’t _Otac’s_ doing too?

Michael begins washing the cuts on his own chest and Sasha snags the compress. “Let me do that,” Sasha says and turns around to clean Michael. Sasha would continue to show pretense of loyalty to all of the Sin-Božji. He figured, being rogue was only dangerous if he was caught in the act. His real loyalty would lie with Mikey, Doug, Tyler, and a couple of others, but them above all. Castiel too was included. And himself of course. Survival was the most important thing.

Once he’s done washing and closing the wounds with surgical tape Michael bids him to take a look at his new ‘Croatoan’ cut. It’s beautiful, just like Mikey said it would be. It would―if it healed properly―leave an inward kind of scar, instead of being raised above the skin. Thick letters in capital script that reminded of those elaborate letters on top of the pages in medieval monks’ handwritten books. It’s not so much a mark of ownership as a loving gesture of wanting someone you cared about have the best. Just like Sasha had once taken care of making the ‘C’ on Castiel’s arm as beautiful as he could make it. The old scar tissue that Mikey removed lies on the bed and floor like disgusting bloody whitish or reddish blue maggots. The symbolism is fitting. The day he decided he no longer would be loyal to the _Porodica_ that’s rotting from within, these ‘maggots’ that made him property are removed. He can’t share this thought with Mikey of course.

Mikey puts some form of cream over the wounds and tapes a compress over them, then hands Sasha a pack of antibiotics from his kit. They clean up and Mikey leaves the room for a while. Sasha ponders whether to put on his underwear or not but comes to the conclusion he doesn’t care that he’s naked, and sits himself by the top of the bed, leaning against the headboard with the ashtray and pack of cigarettes beside him. He puts a cigarette in his mouth but doesn’t light it.

Mikey comes back smoking a new joint, carrying the cherry vodka Sasha drank earlier. He climbs into bed and sits between Sasha’s legs, back against his chest, slides down a bit to a half-lying position. It feels nice. The loneliness that has been pressing against Sasha’s soul these last couple of years is gone for the moment.

“So what had you fucked up?” Mikey asks while exhaling and giving Sasha the vodka.

“What?”

“When you came here. You were in shambles.”

Sasha grunts, puts the cig behind his ear and takes a swig of vodka, enjoying it’s soothing burn. He starts combing Mikey’s hair with his fingers. Mikey hums in pleasure and rolls his head back to look at him, eyelids droopy and smiling lazily. “Come on. We’re doing the bestie sleepover confessions thing, right? Isn’t this how it’s normally done?”

Sasha laughs. “I very much doubt our activities together would fall under the category _normal_.” Mikey giggles, that tantalizing smoke escaping his mouth and teasing Sasha’s nostrils. Even second handedly he feels the effect of the drug, mellowing him slightly. “But sure. We can do that. I saw him,” Sasha admits.

“Who?”

Sasha’s hand closes around his pendant unconsciously, lifts it to run it in the seam of his mouth only to catch the scent of blood. He looks at it. Castiel’s angel is still crusted in Michael’s blood from being dragged through the cuts on Michael’s chest. He puts it in his mouth and tongues at it to clean it off, spits it out when it’s clean. “Anna’s brother. The dud. I gave him the chance to live a normal life. The chance to be free of this. I set him free.” There’s a note of anger creeping into his voice. He drinks some more of the vodka and inhales deeply without meaning to after he’s swallowed. He wants to take the joint off of Mikey’s hands and take a real hit on it. Mikey wouldn’t stop him. It’d be a bad idea. Some of the stuff he’s got in his jar would fling him right back to where he once was. This maybe won’t, but it’d tempt him to go for the real shit.

“Where’d you see him?”

Sasha chuckles with bitter humour. “This is a joke. You will appreciate the humour, I’m sure. You know what he does? He plays hockey.” 

Mikey chortles. “No shit?”

“Oh it gets better. Much better. Guess what team he’s playing in?”

“Pfft. How on earth could I guess?”

“The Angels.”

Mikey’s eyes fly wide open and he twists around to stare. “You’re shittin’ me?”

Sasha shakes his head. “No. I set him free so he could have a normal life. You know what he does? He goes right back into it. He’s got the full ‘Croatoan’ done on his arm recently. Lucifer has made him his own.”

“What’s his name?”

“Castiel Collins.” Sasha’s arm is throbbing and he takes another swig of vodka.

“The new guy, huh. Is he… You think he’ll protect Luce?”

Sasha thinks of his conversation with Lucifer in the parking lot. Lucifer knew about him and Cas. He knew who Castiel was and about his past in the _Porodica_. Lucifer had been very adamant that Sasha didn’t pose a threat to Cas and his present lover. Lucifer was very personally invested and Sasha thought perhaps Castiel was too. “Yes.”

Mikey sinks back down against Sasha’s chest, his arms draped to hang loosely over Sasha’s knees and the joint burning up slowly in his hand. He stares emptily in front of himself, eyes red and glazed and eyelids so heavy they nearly fall shut. As broken as Mikey is―nothing but a vague shadow of a man, shattered from the inside and driven insane―Sasha muses that in terms of madness, _he_ is probably worse off than Michael. Not that he feels that way, but that’s just it. He’s fine. Apart from the loneliness, coldness, and tiredness, he sleeps well enough when he sleeps. He isn’t haunted by many regrets or by a bad conscious. He enjoys his work and life in general. He muses about how the world thinks of him as evil. His life’s drenched in blood. He's killed or hurt more people than he can count―more still if you count the orders he's given. And yet he can't think of himself as evil. He doesn’t feel that way. 

He pets Michael’s hair and kisses the top of his head absentmindedly, feeling the younger man push closer, drawn by the physical affection as a moth to a flame. This is not the nature of his feelings for Michael but he doesn't mind indulging him. It'll help him stay alive too. Mikey is unstable. He could do a 180° at any time so it's up to Sasha to make sure Mikey is dependant on him. Friends or not, staying alive is his no.1 priority. Inadvertently he takes another deep breath, inhaling smoke from the joint. The secondhand effect of the drug already have him mellowed enough not to care. The high makes him philosophical. 

It’s funny how those he cares for poses the biggest threat to him. That’s alright by him. It’s probably the same for them. The world they live in is absurd in its violence. Just look at the relationship he once had with Castiel. And look at him and Mikey. If they ever took a shot at a normal life and relationship (if that had been an option) there would always be a discordant undertone, an underlying note of malcontent. Like their inner beast was locked into a tiny cage, doomed to forever pace back and forth. They didn’t know any other way to live and it's too late to learn.

* * *


	2. The Artist

### April 4th Thursday - April 5th Friday

Sasha falls asleep with Mikey curled around his back. It’s both a bit uncomfortable due to the heat and nice because of the closeness. His arm is throbbing painfully as to be expected. It doesn't stop him from falling asleep. Physical pain has been a part of his everyday life for too long.

He goes from deeply asleep to wide awake in a heartbeat. It’s pure instinct that has him swinging a punch before he even opens his eyes. He hits Michael’s head with an audible crack and kicks out, sending the Бог брат flying off him. Mikey loses his grip on the knife he'd been holding and it goes hurdling to the floor with a clatter. Michael lands on the floor with a grunt and hits the back of his head. Sasha is on him before he can recuperate and lands another blow to the head, sending Mikey into unconsciousness. 

It’s all over in seconds and Sasha sinks to all fours beside Mikey. His heart is beating wildly, his breath is ragged, and the sudden rush of adrenaline have him shaking. He stares at the knife on the floor. It’s proof of Mikey’s insanity. How paranoid and torn Mikey is between duty and what he wants. If Sasha had been slower to wake he'd been dead. 

He gets up, lifts Michael, dumps him on the bed and goes to the kitchen. There he looks through Mikey’s freezer. There’s no ice packs or frozen peas, but there are ice cubes (and not much more besides it). He takes the ice cubes, puts them in a dish towel and smashes them against the floor. Then he goes back to the bedroom, gets into bed with Michael and holds the makeshift ice pack against his face where he hit him.

It takes a couple of minutes before Mikey stirs. He comes back to life with a jerk. Sasha quickly wrap himself around him, locking down his limbs octopus style. "Shh, shh. I've got you. You’re safe," Sasha hushes. 

“...Lexi?"

"Yes it's me. Be still. I've got you. You’re safe," he repeats. 

Michael relaxes and groans. “What happened?” he asks.

Sasha snorts. “You tried to kill me in my sleep.”

“Oh… right. I remember. Wow. That wasn’t very nice, now was it?” Mikey says with a humorless laugh, then groans again. 

“Misplaced kindness,” Sasha answers. It was, in a twisted sort of way. If the wrong people got wind of their relationship as it was now, a quick death in his sleep is _not_ what he’d be in for. He keeps Mikey on lockdown. He doesn’t trust his docility quite yet.

“Fuck, Lex. You’ve got reflexes like a fucking snake. I think I’ve got a concussion.” Michael grins sluggishly.

“Serves you right. Remember I said I wanted to die an old man? I’m not old yet. Got at least half my life left.”

Mikey’s eyes are glazed and red rimmed, not fully there, yet a small twinkle of mischief sparks and his lips twitch in humour. “You’re a _little_ old…” he says teasingly and Sasha seriously considers punching him out again.

“No. I’m _not_.” Michael wriggles his wrists in Sasha’s grip, squirms underneath him, testing his possibilities of getting loose. A wave of dizziness and nausea very visibly hits him and he stops. ”Go to sleep, Mikey. I’m here and I’ll watch over you. You’re safe with me.” A shame it wasn’t the same for him. “I’ve got you. Just sleep.” Not what you should encourage somebody with a concussion to do. He doesn’t give a shit, neither does Mikey.

“I’ve already got my two hours of sleep tonight.”

“That’s all you sleep?” Sasha frowns.

“Mhm. One to two hours. T’night I got three solid hours. ‘S a record this year I think.” Michael is drowsily looking around. Sasha has no problem following his gaze. The knife on the floor, the roll of carving tools on the nightstand, the drawer in the other nightstand, taking stock of weapons. Sasha was right not to trust him yet. But he’s sluggish and off-kilter by the blows to his head paired with drug use and insomnia.

“You take sleeping pills?”

“Don’t work. It used to, but...”

Well that certainly isn’t helping his mental health. Prolonged sleep deprivation could lead to depression, memory-, cognitive-, and coordination problems. And paranoia, come to think of it. As if the Божја браћа didn’t have enough of _that_ already. “Any hallucinations?” he asks.

Michael squints at him, closing one eye first, then opens it and closes the other. Sasha guesses he’s seeing double. “Not that I know about, no. Are _you_ real?” 

“Very much so, резчик,” Sasha assures him. He needs to snap him out of the kill-mode. Kind of like Cesar Milan does with dogs, breaking their focus on a task and then distract them with another. The answer he thinks will work best―to use signs of affection to manipulate―is unsavory to him, but he does it anyway. The alternative would be using violence since he’s still naked and can’t safely let go of Michael to get his drugs. He leans his head in and touches his lips to Mikey’s. The touch jolts Mikey like an electric shock. “Very much so, резчик,” he repeats against the younger man’s lips, working under the assumption that Mikey’s high libido combined with his desperate need for physical comfort will make his head switch gears. It does. A couple of soft kisses and Mikey is no longer trying to get free, but trying to get closer. Sasha lets him go, shoves the forgotten makeshift ice pack off the bed and collects Michael into his arms like he was a baby, holding him to his chest and kissing his forehead. “I’ll protect us, резчик. You’re safe. Rest,” he says again.

“I’ll never be safe…” Mikey mumbles drowsily and nuzzles his head in between Sasha’s pecs, drawing his hands in towards his chest in a fetal position. Contradictory to his words his breathing slows and within minutes he’s asleep. He should be woken with regular intervals to check up on his head. Sasha neglects that in favour of holding him. He wonders if there’s any part of little boy Mikey left, or if the two years since the fight with Lucifer has erased every trace of sanity―every trace of the boy with a heart too big.

* * *

Mikey awakes with a groan and sits up gingerly with a hand to his forehead and eyes squeezed shut. For a while he just sits like that and breathes. “There’s a bottle of water to your left and two pills, one for the pain and one to clear your head a bit. How do you feel?” Michael opens his eyes when Sasha speaks and looks surprised to find him sitting in the verdant blue recliner in a corner of the room.

“You still here?”

Sasha scoffs. “No. I left ten hours ago.” Then he thinks better of giving an answer like that to someone who might possibly suffer from hallucinations. “Of course I’m still here. What does it look like? I said I’d watch over you, so I did.”

Mikey processes this for a bit, eyes flitting back and forth, looking at memories rather than the actual room. He grunts and reaches for the pills and the water, still moving gingerly. “I thought you’d leave after…” He downs the pills and drinks half of the water before speaking again. “Thanks for not taking me to a hospital.”

Sasha grins. “Hey, I’ve had enough for a lifetime of waiting by a hospital bed while you lie unconscious.”

“You’ve done it _once_ ,” Mikey says, but cracks a tiny smile.

“One time too many still.”

“Fair enough. What are you doing?” Mikey looks at the big book lying open in Sasha’s lap, but hidden by his knees.

“I’m reading your diaries.”

“I don’t write diaries.”

“No, but you draw them.” Sasha holds up the sketchbook so Michael can see his own art looking back at him.

“That’s private.”

“You don’t say,” Sasha answers dryly. Mikey had kept his sketchbook from he was a child and up. It’s a wonder he hadn’t burned them. The faces, scenes―real or imagined―were windows straight into Mikey’s heart. Outside of his family three persons were drawn over and over and over. Bella, the girl from his childhood, Sam Winchester, and Sasha himself. Out of his family Lucifer were most often depicted―no surprise there. The surprise was that Mikey really could draw, and that he did. Apart from the carving he’d done on the back of the woman back in twin towns, Sasha had never seen him do it.

Mikey grunts. “Shit. It feels like my bladder is about to explode. How long was I out?”

“Eighteen hours.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. You need help getting to the bathroom?”

“I don’t―” Mikey slowly swings his legs over the edge of the bed and cautiously gets to his feet. “No. No, I think I’ll manage.” He shuffles out of the room carefully, holding his head, and the wall for support. Sasha remains sitting where he is, slowly turning the pages and soaking in every pencil stroke. He’s already gone through all of them once. Then he looked through some from Mikey’s childhood again. He’d been surprised to find he was often depicted there too. He and four other Croatoan teachers. Most of the time the Croatoans in the scenes were faceless. But not him. Never him. 

Mikey worked either with graphite pencils or colored pencils, and by the time he hit the age of fourteen his skill level was next to photorealistic. It had kept improving after that. This was something Sasha missed in his life. Memories fade. A picture brought them back to vivid life again. He had no pictures. Yet here some of his best memories were captured. 11 year Doug sitting on a table gesturing wildly and talking animately, enthusiastically, about the effects of long term use of benzodiazepines on the body and mind, while Sasha sits on a chair looking up at the boy with a proud close-lipped smile, a book between them.

Another scene, him and Lucifer. It’s the same year―1998, when Sasha is 34. Lucifer is 12. Both are lying on their stomach in the grass, Lucifer with his finger by the trigger of a sniper rifle, Sasha with a pair of binoculars lowered in his hand. They’re looking at each other, Lucifer beaming triumphantly and Sasha with a huge proud grin, wind ruffling their hair. Sasha had forgotten this moment until he saw the picture, but when he did he could once again recall it. It had been windy, making the shot very tricky. Yet Lucifer had hit the bull’s eye at 1200 meters. “ _Yeah! Did you see it, Aleksandr? Did you see me?_ ”, “ _I saw it, Champ. Perfect. Exceptionally well done, Lucifer._ ” It was hard to tell who had been the most proud, teacher or student.

Other scenes frozen in time, graphite sketches. Sasha holding one year old Eric in his arms, feeding him with a bottle and looking down on him with a soft smile. He didn’t even know he himself could look that soft. Another of him throwing 4 year old Levi in the air, just to catch him and throw him again, never letting him fall. In the picture Levi is at the highest point in the air and Sasha has his arms up hands ready to catch. Levi screaming in delight mingled with horror and Sasha laughing.

Him with 7 year old Kasady sitting on his shoulders while watching a football game in the back yard (the oldest kids were playing the Croatoans). Kasady is gripping his hair and both are leaning forward screaming their support for whoever is leading the charge at goal.

In almost all pictures where Sasha appears he’s smiling to one degree or another. Funny how Sasha can’t remember Mikey actually being present at any of those instances. If you look in these sketchbooks it’s like he wasn’t even part of the family at all, just a ghost floating through watching everything from afar. 

There aren’t any self portraits until Mikey moved to Angel Falls with Lucifer. And while Mikey draws himself just as photorealistic as everyone else, some pictures with him in them has disturbing elements. Like lacking irises and pupils in the eyes, or having no mouth. Or, like a picture from the visit to the Heart, the one Sasha had accompanied him to. He’s drawn himself and a group of his brothers standing and talking, laughing, smiling and happy. They have a mirror behind them but Mikey lacks a mirror image. In other pictures he’s drawn himself in graphite while anyone he’s interacting with is in colour. Not on all pictures. In pictures with him and Luci, him and Sam, and him and Sasha, there’s a decent amount of pictures where he’s as vibrant as any of them. 

Sasha puts down the book he’d been looking at and takes up the one from 2011 where he himself started to appear again. If he’d seen this back then―before Mikey’s and Lucifer’s fight―he’d freaked the fuck out. It’s very obvious that Michael thought of him sexually long before anything happened between them. The first couple of pictures that would serve as a hint of this are only partial. Sketches of his hands for an instance. They’re very detailed, every little faded scar visible. There’s no doubt in his mind that it is, indeed, his hands. His mouth too has been drawn a lot. Closing around a bottle to drink, quirked in a ghost of a smile, his fingers holding his pendant and dragging it in the seam of his lips. Later in the year there are pictures of Sasha having sex with Anna, except Anna is just sketchy outlines and Sasha is so vividly drawn you can see sweat glistening on his body.

There was two things that happened from this sketchbook and forward. One was that he stopped making the whole thing photorealistic and drew the main object in detail but let the things around it unravel in sketchier pencil strokes, or he’d just have sloppy outlines and shadows of the things around the object, often combining colour and graphite to highlight the important stuff in a picture. Like a picture of Lucifer sitting on a wooden dock by the lake, overlooking a sunset with a soft smile. Only Lucifer is in colour, along with footprints going out to him, supposedly his own. The biggest reason one knows it’s a sunset is the colour and shadows that lights Lucifer’s skin. Sasha finds these techniques breathtakingly beautiful and enjoys these half sketchy half photorealistic pictures more than those where the whole scene looks like a photo. This becomes Mikey’s trademark style.

The second things that happens is that Mikey starts drawing sloppy sketches of fantasies. Things that didn’t happen. Things he obviously longed for. The first one of those appears after Sam had surrendered to him and offered himself. After that there are pages devoted to an alternate reality where he took the offer and put the boy back together himself, becoming both lover, care provider, and mentor for him. There are sketches of him and Lucifer sharing the willing boy―yet again proving that love and sex is something Mikey enjoys as a group activity. It should be noted though that not a single picture of Lucifer is ever about Mikey lusting over him, not like with Sam and Sasha.

Sasha switches book again to look at the pictures from the Heart. Those were happy times for him. Mikey comes back into the room, frowning. “Where’s my stash?”

“I flushed it. While I’m here you’re only taking what I give you.”

“By what right―”

Sasha looks up. “You’re lucky I love you or you’d be dead by now. I don’t take assassination attempts lightly.”

“Love me,” Mikey repeats dumbly, like the words doesn’t make any sense.

“That should be fairly obvious by now, yes.”

Mikey looks to the floor with a little frown, mulling it over. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking. He probably has a lot of problem thinking at all with the concussion. It takes about a minute for his face to smooth out. He mouths a little “Oh,” and looks up at Sasha. “Fair enough. But I’m getting a new stash when you leave.”

“I’m sure you will.” Sasha looks down on the sketchbook again. “You know, this is what you should be doing. I fucking love your art style. Especially your later works when you mix photorealism with sketchiness. It underlines the fact that it’s art at the same time as it highlights your skill, you get what I’m sayin’? Last time I saw photorealism this level the man worked on huge canvases. You get the same results in miniature. It’s amazing. I didn’t even know you could draw to begin with.”

Michael comes up to him and flops down onto his lap, Sasha barely has time to jerk the sketchbook out of his lap before he lands. The motion hits Mikey with a wave of dizziness and Sasha throws an arm around his back to steady him. “Didn’t take you for an art lover.”

Sasha snorts. “Why not?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’ve never seen you show art any interest. You have any favourite artists?”

Sasha makes a sturgeon face and shrugs. “I like the detailed scenes painted by Jacques Louis David, Ivan Aivazovsky’s dramatic seascapes, and I like how J.M.W Turner plays with light in his paintings. To name a few.”

Michael blinks sluggishly at him before cracking a smile. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, Lexi?”

Sasha returns the smile and changes sketchbook again. He flips through it and stops at one of the fantasy scenes of Luci and Mikey making love to Sam. He taps his finger on the picture and looks up at Mikey. “You know, you could be doing this, Mikey. Become a famous artist. Reconcile with Lucifer. Live in a fancy mansion, maybe coax Luci and Sam to come live with you. You’d pick me as your live-in head of security. If you find a girl you like and want kids, I’ll marry her for you and act as your cover. Nobody would know. We’d get Sam trained as a Croatoan and have him made. Once he’s made he’d look like another part of your security staff. The four of us, all of us are good at keeping secrets. Nobody outside would _know_.”

_It’d be perfect._

“I’d be treason.”

“It’d be sane.”

“I can’t.”

Sasha doesn’t push right now. Not without knowing what kind of mess Mikey’s head is in at the moment. He’ll stay here for a while, trying to get Mikey back from the brink. He’s got time...

* * *


	3. Sensing Evil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha's working, and encounters someone who has an equally developed gut feeling as him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a twin in [The Depraved, chapter 16 - Bad Samaritan](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4032760/chapters/14269867) from another POV.

* * *

**2014**

* * *

Summer

_Fuck!_

He sees the two police officers by his stolen car just as he rounds the corner and immediately turns on his heel before they spot him. The number of times something goes wrong on a job, outweighs the amount of times everything goes right. You just need to roll with it. It’s an annoyance though. He hadn’t anticipated the car to be reported stolen so quickly. The owners were on vacation. Somebody knowing them must have seen him take it. The police might have a description of him. 

_Time to get out of Dodge._

It’s a good thing there’s nothing suspicious in the car that wasn’t there before he took it. His job here was done anyway. He shoots of a text to the partner he’s working with, a Richard Mitchell.

`Five crates unloaded. No heavy lifting done. Some cherries spilled by my car. I’ll leave them there. See you at grandma’s.`

It’s all code. Job done without any complications. Cops (from ‘cherry toppers’ for police cars) by the car so they’ll meet up by the next rendezvous point. Mitchell would have to get there by himself as Sasha can’t pick him up. The answer comes within a minute.

`Unloaded my crates too. One was so heavy I had to use a fucking jack to lift it. There was no spill though. A shame really. I love cherries! I would have loved to get some for myself and be able to blame it on spill. ;) Give granny my love if you get there first. Catch you later, big bro.`

Sasha chuckles in amusement. Mitchell doesn’t speak a word more than he needs to, but chatters away quite happily in writing. He lets you fill in the blanks and draw your own conclusions, fucking role-playing his texts perfectly. Should anyone find their phones or hack them they’d find nonsensical chatter between two brothers. Mitchell sent texts that weren’t strictly necessary for the job when he got bored, but he still kept it coded and in character. It amused Sasha and he’d respond in kind. 

Now he had to find another vehicle pretty fast. The best thing would be if he could get someone to drive him, in case the cops are looking for one male suspect.

He crosses the street in brisk pace, enters a mall, goes through it, gets out on the other side, follows the sidewalk a couple of blocks and turns a corner to find a mostly empty parking lot outside of an office building. There’s a kid lounging by a nice car. The guy looks about 18-20 years old, black jeans with a big key chain looping from the belt to the pocket, tight tank top, black hair, athletic build and a full tattoo sleeve. A more fitting outfit than Sasha’s jacket and hoodie this hot summer day. But Sasha’s used to be overly dressed. Jackets to hide the guns, or bullet proof vests. It goes with the job, and he barely thinks about it most of the time.

There are no one else in sight so Sasha walks towards him, schooling his posture into earnest and help seeking. The kid is smoking, black hair hanging down and almost covering one eye. As he gets closer he can see a ultramarine streak in the kid’s hair. 

The kid spots him and watches him approach with vague curiosity. He’s got multiple piercings in his face. He straightens his back when Sasha closes in. He shows no open hostility, nor does he shutter down. His expression is somewhere between apprehension and curiosity.

“Excuse me, Sir?” Sasha says when he’s about 6 meters from the kid, and sees a flicker of surprise at the ‘Sir’. “Could you help me? My car got stolen, and my wallet was inside of it. My brother gets married tomorrow in Arlington and I’m stuck here. I don’t know what to do. I need a ride.” He makes sure to look distressed and desperate, stopping about 1,5 meters from the kid.

“Your car got stolen?” The kid shows a mix of suspiciousness and wanting to believe and help.

He makes a chagrinned face and rubs his neck. “Yes. I had parked it up by the mall. I’ve spent a couple of hours in the police station already but that’s not helping me get where I need to be on time. I’m supposed to be the best man. I’m desperate. My brother and I didn’t exactly part on good terms. This was his gesture of reconciliation and I’m going to fuck it up,” he says, makes his lips wobble and his voice crack a bit on the last sentence. He looks away, drags a hand over his mouth and makes a show of gathering himself, like the kid had just witnessed his ‘public face’ slip to reveal how close to tears he is underneath. He can’t actually feign crying, but pretending to stave off tears is another matter. 

This time it works too. The kid buys it. Compassion bleeds into his posture and gaze. “Hey, man. I'm not sure if I can help you. My car is at the mechanics. But maybe the guy who owns this car can? He's the dad of my two best friends. He’ll be here any minute. You want a smoke?” the kid asks and offers him a cigarette.

It’s a bummer that the car isn’t the kid’s, or that the kid is borrowing it. Sasha needs the fob. The clientele in these parts are all well to do, caught in the race to have the latest. Hence the cars around were ‘Sasha-proofed’. New cars you had to hack rather than hot-wire. There had been a bunch of older cars on the parking lot where he’d left the other car, but he’s not going to risk car theft in front of cops that might already know to be on a look out for him.

The important thing here is to not raise alarm to the police until he’s long gone. Ideally, he’d get someone to drive him. They’d feel good about themselves for helping him and nobody gets hurt. Ideally. He’s not above homicide as long as no one cries wolf before he’s gone.

“Thank you, Sir,” he says and accepts the offered cig along with the invitation to step in closer as the kid lights the cigarette for him.

“It’s Justin,” the kid offers with a smile.

“Nice to meet you, Justin. I’m James,” Sasha answers with a smile of his own and shakes Justin’s hand. They chat while they smoke and wait for the car owner to show up. Justin shows no signs of being on his guard, wearing any kinds of weapons, or be any kind of threat. He’s a swimmer, but not allowed to compete for the school as they think his tattoos will give them a bad rep. Justin says he doesn’t care about that as long as he can swim somewhere. _That’s_ a lie. Justin’s gagging to compete or he wouldn’t have brought it up. When Sasha asks about his tattoos and touches Justin’s arm, he notices a reaction he’d been oblivious to before he and Michael started to mess around back in twin towns. It’s subtle shifts in the body language, lingering glances, a canter of hips, biting of lips, and the sound of a tongue piercing clicking against the inside of teeth. It tells Sasha that if he changes his tactics there might be a complimentary BJ in this somewhere. Or would have been, if Justin had the key fob. Nevertheless he adjusts his behaviour to include light flirting. Sex is a huge selling point when you want something. A person who wants to fuck you is less likely to give you up to the cops, and more likely to cooperate if they think they stand a chance.

He wonders how often a guy coming onto him has passed him by in the past. Nowadays he finds it happens quite often. Rather than thinking it’s a new thing that’s started to happen, he believes he’s just been blind to it before. A shame really. It would have been a useful tool.

Justin’s not his type.

_Come now, Sash. You don’t have a type when it comes to men. ...or maybe I do? Arbitrary in their power, athletic, skilled, intelligent, unpredictable and utterly mad._

Apart from the power thing, both Castiel and Mikey fit that profile and the thought amuses him, makes him run his thumb along the side of the ring Mikey gave him, unconsciously lifting his hand to stroke his pendant. It draws Justin’s attention. He asks if Sasha believes in God. Judging by all the religious crap Justin’s got tattooed on his arm, the answer is a given “Yes”. He tells Justin it’s the angel of Thursday, because he was born on a Thursday. The bullshit you have to spout to win people over. It doesn’t matter. It gets Justin talking about Jesus and all he has to do is smoke and nod along while waiting for the car owner to show up. 

When he does, Sasha can tell already from a distance that Mr. Car-owner isn’t going to cooperate. The man, handsome, tall, dressed in business casual clothes, is walking briskly towards them from the office building. He’s got his gaze locked on Sasha and an air of determination, showing quite a lot of tenseness. He’s holding a set of keys in one fist, each key poking out between his fingers in a makeshift knuckle-duster. He’s anticipating a fight.

Sasha’s sure he can’t have seen the two guns he’s wearing under his jacket―one in a holster and the other one tucked into his jeans at the back for quicker draw―or any of the other weapons on his person. He’s sure his body language isn’t giving him away, yet the closer the man gets, the clearer it is to Sasha that the man is out to drive him away. He seems familiar and Sasha searches his brain to pinpoint from where.

“Mr. Rainsborough!” Justin calls out when the man is within hearing range, dropping the cigarette and stomping it out. “This man needs our help.”

“Does he now? Justin, I just remembered I forgot my car keys upstairs. Could you run back to John’s office to get them? Ask him if he wants a lift to the gun range with us while you’re at it,” Mr. Rainsborough says with a tight smile without taking his eyes off Sasha.

Justin frowns. “Can’t you just call John?” he protests in the typical _why-do-I-have-to-do-it_ teenager way.

“Just do it, Justin. Meanwhile I’ll talk to Mr…” Rainsborough says, swiftly inserting himself between Justin and Sasha, holding out a hand to shake but from the furthest possible distance.

“Alright, alright,” Justin grumbles with a dissatisfied expression and sets off at a jog towards the building.

“James,” Sasha fills in the gap Rainsborough let linger. He’s still trying to place the familiar face and name. The man’s features are controlled, but small signs shows he’s nervous or afraid. Sasha is fairly amused and a bit impressed by how he’s handling the encounter. Rainsborough has established that the car key is out of reach (probably a lie), that there’s a risk of armed backup arriving shortly, and at the same time gotten the kid to safety.

“Thomas,” Rainsborough say as they shake, and steps away to a ‘safe’ distance. (It’s nowhere near a safe distance even if Sasha wasn’t armed. Not unless Thomas is an equally accomplished fighter as himself.) The face and name finally clicks into place for Sasha. He watches sports newscasts, and Rainsborough was featured a while back when a damaged knee forced the ChHL hockey player to retire. The man is famous enough that getting the fob from him (Sasha is pretty certain he has it in his pocket) by force would cause too much unwanted attention. Especially since Thomas just sent away someone who’d be able to identify him.

“I’m sorry about your leg. Hope you’re doing better,” Sasha offers with a sympathetic smile. Maybe he can still win the guy over. 

“Thank you. I am.” Thomas voice is tight, he’s standing straight, gaze intent on Sasha, and with an air of readiness. There’s a cross dangling from the hand he’s holding his keys in as a knuckle-duster. His pulse is beating rapidly on his neck. He _is_ afraid, but still ready to fight. “I don’t know what you’re after, but you’re not going to get it here. I’m asking you politely to leave, or I will call the police.”

“Woah. Why so hostile? I’m just in need of a ride so I won’t miss my brother’s wedding,” Sasha says in consternation and holds his hands up, palm out.

“If that is so, I hope you find someone to drive you, but it won’t be us. Personally, I don’t believe you, so please leave,” Thomas says, voice steady. Hard and polite.

Calling him out isn’t the smartest thing Thomas could do. Or wouldn’t have been if Sasha had been more of a hothead, more proud, more _stupid_. Lucky for Thomas, Sasha is none of those things. He is however, a bit intrigued. He scowls. “It’s rude as hell to call me a liar when all I’m asking for is help. What did I do to provoke this attitude?”

“Nothing. Let’s call it instinct. You don’t need to see the fin to know there’s a shark in the water.”

“ _Instinct_?”

“Yes.”

Sasha shakes his head bitterly and gives Thomas a disappointed and very hurt look. “Goes to show what Christian generosity is worth in these parts, when you can’t even be bothered to help a brother in need, based on ‘instinct’. I still regret having to see you leave the team, despite your attitude. Good day to you, Thomas Rainsborough.” He revels in the uncertainty Thomas suddenly shows, before he turns and walks away from the car and hockey player. The truth of course, is that he doesn’t even remember what team Thomas played for. It doesn’t matter. He got to undermine those instincts by letting Thomas know he denied help to a ‘fellow Christian’ and a fan. Hopefully guilt tripping him. If he’d kept talking like that he _might_ have managed to persuade Thomas, but it isn’t worth the time. Better go for an easier target.

Later, when he’s sitting in the passenger seat of another car―a middle aged woman driving and two kids in the back―on the way to Arlington, he thinks about it. He thinks about it while he sings “The wheels on the bus goes round and round…” with the kids and finds himself getting oddly excited about Rainsborough’s reaction. It’s stupid, but it’s the first time in a very long time someone has seen him for the dangerous predator he is, and he respects that. After all, he had considered double homicide a viable option until Justin was sent away and Thomas was revealed to be famous. Indeed. He could respect a man that trusted his gut feeling and had the guts to stand up for it. It’s almost a shame Rainsborough will never find out how right he was about Sasha.

* * *


	4. The Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strange things happens sometime, and you have to trust your gut. Sasha gets a real scare.

* * *

**2014**

* * *

Summer

“Welcome to grandma’s, brother,” Mitchell says when he opens the motel room door. He’s already showered and changed his clothes.

Sasha’s lips curve into a little sarcastic smile as he enters. He’s tired and hot, longing for a shower. He doesn’t even care if Mitchell has used all the hot water or not. “Got any new instructions from base?” He asks and finally removes the leather jacket. The air conditioner in the car had been broken, and used to being over dressed or not, he was overheated. He goes directly to the mini bar and takes a bottle of water, opening it and draining it in one go.

“No. Any trouble on the road?” Mitchell asks and takes a seat on one of the beds, using the remote to mute the TV.

“No. I hitched a ride with a lady and her kids. Been singing childrens songs half the way. Thanks to little Kelly, I now know the full lyrics to _Let It Go_ from Frozen,” Sasha tells him while he undresses. Mitchell has already put his bag on the other bed for him so Sasha dumps his shirt and guns there. He stops and straightens out, turning to face Mitchell. “Because, apparently, it was _real fucking important_ that I could sing that song. I just wanted to say, ‘little girl, I kill people for a living. Disney songs is not one of the major qualifications needed for the job, you get what I’m sayin?’ Ugh.” Sasha widens his eyes in a _seriously?_ expression and Mitchell laughs. Sasha goes back to undressing. “But whatever works, you know? At least it passed the time. And there’s only so many times you can sing _the wheels of the bus goes round and round_ , before expressions like ‘Silence is golden, duct tape is silver’ pops into your head.”

Mitchell laughs again and laces his fingers over his stomach. “You never know when you’ll need skills like that,” he supplies with an amused smirk.

Sasha makes a sturgeon face and a half shrug as to concede to the point. It’s actually true. The number one key to be a good liar is A) have a great memory, and B) make as much as possible of what you say true. If he for an instance wanted to bond with a parent in the future he could tell them of how crazy his own daughter is about Frozen. About how she makes him sing that song all the time. The fact that he knew the lyrics would lend credibility to the lie. That he could impersonate ‘his daughter’s’ _oh-my-god-you’re-hopeless_ facial expression when he sang it wrong also lent credibility. It could also be used to gain the trust of another child with a passion for Frozen.

He wraps a towel around his waist and heads for the shower. He’s happy to notice that Mitchell didn’t use all hot water. He showers in barely lukewarm water to cool himself down. It feels good to scrub sweat and grime off.

_...It's time to see what I can do, To test the limits and break through, No right, no wrong, no rules for me, I'm free!..._

Not until he hears Mitchell laugh at him from the other room, does he realise he’s singing the fucking song again. He chuckles to himself.

Mitchell is pleasant to work with. They travel under the aliases James and Jack Porter. They have enough common traits that people buy into it when they say they’re brothers, even though they don’t look all that much alike. Mitchell is almost as tall as him, albeit appears slim and wiry, with not an ounce of extra fat, making him ripped. He’s got dark grey eyes, rat coloured medium length hair, a straight nose that's never been broken, a snaggle tooth and a very sympathetic look. They move similarly. Mitchell adjusts his gestures and quirks to match Sasha’s while they’re in public. Sasha’s actually pretty impressed by how fast Mitchell can mirror him, making it seem like they are so attuned to each other they might as well have grown up together. He’s also great at doing accents even if he doesn’t talk much. The tiny hint of Russian accent Sasha still has trouble to shake―faded to barely nothing as it may be―is echoed when Mitchell talks. 

Mitchell is the same kind of Croatoan as Sasha, working a lot of undercover, travelling all over, solving problems. Sasha is generally a blunter instrument in comparison, working more actual combat operations along with information gathering, while Mitchell would do ghost ops and spy work. Jobs that weren't supposed to be violent per se. That didn't mean Mitchell never killed, or was a bad fighter. But his primary function was to gather Intel that other Croatoans would act upon. He’s been on this project for years now―unlike Sasha―getting all the info they’re now using for the op. Yet he’s got no trouble with the fact that Sasha is placed as the commander in charge. Sasha likes him. 

In fact, he likes most of the Croatoans on the C-virus project. They’d been hand picked for the kind of skills Sasha and Mitchell shared, along with at least ten years of experience. The ability to get the job done with no one the wiser.

Sasha shaves, brushes his teeth and combs his hair. It’s longer than he likes it to be, reaching almost to his brows if he combs it forward. Mikey likes it that way. He keeps it short in the back and on the sides. But trying to steer the mess that Mikey is right now is next to impossible―like trying to herd a hundred terrified rabbits while riding a miniature tricycle―so he uses any means he can to give him an edge. Personally he thinks he looks like a boyband wannabe in this haircut, and keeps his hair combed back (preferably hidden under a baseball cap) most of the time. 

He pauses to study himself in the mirror for a while. Apart from the unfamiliar haircut he likes what he sees. He twists to look at the _Croatoan_ Mikey carved on him. It healed perfectly and looks fucking beautiful. He’s proud of it. He flexes a bit in front of the mirror. Sure, he carries a couple of extra pounds spread evenly as padding, but they’re practical in a fight. Muscles without extra fat over might be pretty to look at, but were so much easier to injure. He gives the mirror a flirty smile and a wink, then practises his shy boyish look that tend to work well for him with the ladies. He lets his face shutter down into the cruel mask that goes for his fighting face. He’s pleased with the change of appearance. He looks fucking scary. The more he thinks about it, the more pleased he is with the fact that Rainsborough had seen through his theatrics and _known_ what a dangerous man he is. He should be bothered by that, but he isn’t since it happens so rarely―and when it does it’s usually others like him, that sniffs him out. The fear in the former hockey player’s eyes was very satisfying.

He leans in close to the mirror to look at his eyes. Always when he does that, Castiel’s gushing comes to mind. _...A starburst of precious metals that shifts as the pupil contracts and expand..._ He still feels a bit warm about it. He’d been embarrassed and amused at the moment, because what do you do when a _guy_ goes off like that, drugs or no drugs? If he’d been more open minded back then… 

_It’s no use thinking like that, Sash. I can’t change the past. Got to focus on the future. Only losers and victims get stuck on wishing they could go back and change what’s already a fact, forgetting they have the power to influence what’s ahead._

He looks at the crowsfeet by the corners of his eyes, using his fingers to stretch the skin. He’s still able to attract the attention from girls―and judging by Justin’s behaviour, boys too―in their late teens, crowsfeet and all. He wonders what Castiel would think of him now? _He_ thinks he looks damn fine for a man a few months short of fifty. But does Castiel?

He’s itching to make another stop at twin towns. Lucifer’s orders had been very fucking clear―don’t be a threat to Castiel or his pretty-boy Dean, that went for a boyfriend. Every time he’d been there to check up on Castiel since the derby, his trigger finger had itched to blow Dean out of the sky. Shooting him wasn’t a viable option. Lucifer had been clear about that when they talked in the parking lot at the derby. He was not allowed to pose a threat to either of them.

*~~*~~*

_“Sir, are you telling me I have to stay away from them?” Sasha asked, trying to hide his bitterness._

_Lucifer pursed his lips thoughtfully, studying him with a sharp gaze. A slow smirk curled the corner of his lip upward. “I didn’t say that, did I?” Luci said, and winked at him._

*~~*~~*

He wasn’t allowed to do anything that might cause a split between Lucifer and Sam. But if Castiel broke up with Dean by his own accord, he’d have Lucifer’s green light. With other words, he has to figure out what would make Castiel do just that.

He ruffles his hair a bit and smiles at his image again. Maybe this haircut ain’t that bad, just unfamiliar. He can pull it off. Yeah. He looks good. Not only for his age. He looks real fucking good, period.

He pulls away from ego boosting himself and dabs some after shave on before leaving the bathroom. Mitchell gives him an amused smirk when he comes back into the room to get dressed. Apart from that, Mitchell doesn’t comment on his singing, just goes back to watching TV on low volume. When Sasha’s done dressing he lies down on his bed and directs his gaze towards the TV. “What are we watching?”

“Crap. If you prefer I can change channel. There’s trash, shit, garbage, and rubbish showing on the other ones. Pick your choice.”

Sasha chuckles. “Want to go out and have a beer?”

Mitchell shuts off the TV. “Sure.”

Said and done. Sasha dons his weaponry again and they get going.

Mitchell doesn’t say much, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have a conversation going. They sit at a table, backs against the wall and watch the room, running unspoken commentary of what they see, using facial expressions mostly. Two hours of sitting silently with a guy and Sasha can fucking appreciate it. It’s not an awkward silence, there’s just no reason to speak. Of course, as they get drunker, more words are spoken. Yet still, many people would be chattering nervously just to fill the void.

“I want to get laid,” Mitchell says at last. “Is there any brothels in town?”

“None of ours.”

“Fuck it. I can pay.”

“Not one for seeking true love then?” Sasha jokes and drains his beer.

Mitchell pulls a sturgeon face and shrugs a shoulder in a way that’s so uncannily like himself it makes Sasha’s lips twitch in amusement. “Never been in love. Never enjoyed romancing. Prefer to skip all the extra bullcrap and get down to business.”

“Let’s go then,” Sasha says and gets up.

Mitchell drains his beer and gets to his feet. “How bout you? Ever been in love?”

“Couple of times.”

“Got a ladylove stashed away somewhere?” Mitchell asks as they leave the bar and start walking. The temperature outside is much more pleasant now when it’s getting dark.

“Nah. But I like playing house once in awhile. And sex gets better with a steady girl.”

“Or a guy? Heard you hooked up with a colleague in Rio.”

Sasha makes a face. “How the hell did you hear that?”

“Eyy. You’re as good as a celebrity amongst us Croatoans. People talk. Is it untrue?”

Sasha shakes his head. “Nah. Hooked up with a guy called Flower. We worked a lot together. He’s a fan, worshipping the ground at my feet. And when someone like that willingly rolls over and spread em, what can you do? Might as well take advantage. ‘Sides, he had a nice pussy on ‘im.”

Mitchell frowns in bemusement. “What do you mean, pussy?”

“A pussy. A regular fucking pussy,” Sasha says impatiently.

“He’s one of ‘em transguys?” Mitchell asks in surprise.

“Yup. You got a problem with that?” Sasha answers with a smirk and raises an amused eyebrow, but his eyes holds warning. Flower was just a lay and a colleague, but Sasha likes him well enough to be a bit protective. Besides, _Otac_ and the божја браћа had stated that he could be a Croatoan and as such, no one could deny him the right based on genitalia.

“None whatsoever. Just surprised, that’s all. Does the божја браћа know about him being…?”

“He was made by _Otac_ himself.”

“No shit?”

“Yup.”

“Maybe we can start getting some ladies to join our ranks too then. It’s fucking dumb to discriminate the power of honeytraps.”

“I hear you, and I agree. But I doubt that’s going to happen.”

“A shame,” Mitchell says. They walk in silence for a while. Sasha can see that there’s some hardcore thinking going on in Mitchell’s head. It takes a while, then the question comes. “How did he look like? Downstairs, I mean.”

“Most of him looked like any other guy, and the pussy looked like a pussy, but the clitoris was more like a miniature dick almost. Thicker and longer than usual clits. It even got hard.”

“Did it stand out, like…” Mitchell holds out his arm bent at the elbow, making a fist, in the mimicry of an erection.

“Nah. It was still attached to the labias, like on any chick. He hadn’t had any downstairs surgery.” Flower would probably be pissed if he knew Sasha talked about this, but he doesn’t give a shit. If it was common knowledge how trans men looked downstairs people would stop asking. “Heh. Only dick I’ve ever sucked,” Sasha remarks with an amused smirk. But maybe it was time to change that the next time he visited Mikey? Throw him a bone. Mikey certainly seemed to enjoy doing it. Maybe he was missing out on something?

“So you’ve never been with a real guy?”

Sasha’s hand comes out to slap Mitchell hard on the back of his head before the question’s even finished. He scowls. “Flower’s a real guy. Watch it.”

“Ow. Fuck. I know, I know. I meant―“ Mitchell says, rubbing his head.

“I know what you meant. But apparently guys like him are fucking sensitive little princesses about it, so get it right.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“What’s it to you anyway, who I’ve slept with and not?”

Mitchell holds up his hands in surrender. “I don’t know many guys who’ve grazed both sides of the field. Just curious that’s all.”

“Why? You interested?” Sasha hadn’t gotten any vibes like that from Mitchell. But the guy was a fucking fantastic actor.

“No. Never even wanted to try it. Not my thing I suppose. But girls with big asses ain’t my thing either.”

Sasha snorts. Then his lips twitch in amusement. “I’ve been with a couple of guys. Before you ask, if you wonder what it’s like to take it up the ass, I don’t know. Never tried. But a hole’s a hole and a mouth’s a mouth if you get what I’m saying? Guys don’t really do it for me like chicks do, but they don’t _not_ do it for me. So why not?”

Mitchell hums and mulls this over while they walk. Sasha’s got strong suspicions about why he's _really_ asking. It’s got very little to do with natural curiosity and very much to do with one of the functions Sasha secretly got assigned in Rio. It would make perfect sense―if Mitchell too had gotten the same task―to pair them together on a job. Sasha doesn’t mind. Mitchell can dig for dirt all he wants, Sasha still likes him. He is curious though, if Mitchell suspects _him_ for the same thing. 

After another stretch of silence Mitchell speaks up again. Alcohol apparently makes him a regular chatterbox. “Is it true that you shot a guy for calling you gay?”

Sasha chuckles. “Not even close. The fuck do I care what people call me? I've got more problem with this ‘Immortal’ business. Already had two snot nosed newly mades taking a shot at disproving that fable.” He makes a disgusted face. As if killing him would earn them favours with the божја браћа. If they think that (like some do) they've got another thing coming for them should they succeed. At this point he’s certain both Mikey and Doug would be enraged and vengeful. As it stood, both had learned the hard way that if you were going to try to assassinate a colleague, you’d better succeed or you wouldn’t live to tell the tale.

“Most rumours hold a grain of truth,” Mitchell points out and raises a quizzical eyebrow. 

Sasha chuckles. “Fair enough. This guy, Rodrigo Sanchez, ever worked with him?”

Mitchell shakes his head. 

“You haven’t missed out. Guy was an ass. We were all gathered in the great hall waiting for a бог брат to give us a run through when he went off on me, saying that all guys who fucked other guys were disgusting and should be tortured and killed. While he was ranting both Tyler and Saul entered…”

Mitchell’s eyes go round. He bursts out in delighted laughter and has to stop. ”Holy crap! Insulting two божја браћа at once, huh? Didn't he _know_ who he’s working for?”

Sasha just sniggers. “In short, _I_ didn't kill no one for criticising my choice of bed mates.”

“No shit!” Mitchell remains delighted at Sanchez blunder. So is Sasha. He knew that the божја браћа had defended their own honour. But still, seeing their indignant rage and the violent response to an insult that was meant for him, while he sat back and watched with a nonchalant smirk, it made him fiercely satisfied. 

The rumours that had started circulating about him was both a boon and a curse. He both hated and loved the fame. People he'd never seen had opinions of him, there were tales of him doing stuff he'd never done. His prowess was vastly exaggerated. Croatoans he doesn’t know recognise him on sight. He doesn’t like that part. _That_ brings trouble. He does however like the reverence and respect he is met by. Younger Croatoans were awed by him and older ones deferred to him. When he visited high ranking Croatoans on permanent posts he was greeted with almost the same respect as a бог брат. He fucking loved that part. He’s been climbing the ranks without even knowing it. This is how he prefers to work though. With one partner he considers an equal. That you can hang out with after the job is done.

* * *

They get to the establishment. A strip club that double as a brothel. It isn’t even close to the classy joints Sasha frequents when he’s in the mood, but it serves its purpose. Mitchell’s in no hurry to get off so they park themselves by the bar, orders horrendously overpriced beers and stand watching the clientele and the ‘wares’. The ladies are average looking but friendly. There’s currently one pole dancing, dressed like a cowgirl. 

Sasha’s pretty content just people watching in silence. Then, after maybe fifteen minutes, his alarm bells go off. He scans the room but can't find a viable threat to match his elevated pulse and gut feeling. He smacks Mitchell on the arm to get his attention. “I think we should leave.”

“Why?”

“Gut feeling. Something is wrong.”

“First notes of Jaws theme wrong, or Psycho murder scene wrong?”

Despite his growing fear and feeling of ‘ _Get out!_ ’, Sasha lips twitch in amusement. “First notes of Jaws, but escalating.”

Mitchell studies him for a beat, eyes sharp and unjudging. “Fair enough,” he says and drains his beer. “Let’s―“

They’re interrupted by a small, pretty brunette with waist long hair and skimpy clothes. “Hello there boys. Leaving so soon? My name is Trinity. How about you staying a while longer and letting me take care of you?” She strokes both their arms and smiles seductively.

“Tempting. Really. But this isn’t my kind of scene for what I’m after tonight,” Mitchell tells her.

Sasha’s head is screaming _GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!_ at him now, and he is nervously looking around at what may be the cause. It feels to him like the clock is ticking down.

“That doesn’t have to be a problem. How about spit roast takeaway?” Trinity offers with a wink.

Mitchell meets Sasha’s gaze, raising his eyebrows in question. _You up for it?_

Sasha gives a tiny facial shrug. _Sure. Why not?_ He just wants to get out of here. He doesn’t mind if they take the whore with them.

Mitchell turns his attention back to Trinity and smiles. “Sounds good. Hi, Trinity. I’m Jack.” He shakes her hand and puts a hand on Sasha’s shoulder. “This is my brother.”

“James,” Sasha says and grabs her hand in a firm grip to shake. Trinity’s seductive smile melts into a grimace of pain at the same time there’s a sizzling sound coming from their joined hands.

It happens fast from there. 

Sasha’s heart goes into overdrive out of fear, slowing time. He drops her hand, simultaneously he takes a huge step back and goes for his gun. Mitchell takes an equally huge stride backward and pulls his gun from under his jacket within a split second of Sasha doing so. Sasha has his gun out and trained on Trinity before Mitchell, but Mitchell is the first to pull the trigger.

It’s a perfect shot in the heart, followed by one in the forehead. Trinity staggers backwards, eyes wide by shock. Sasha’s double shot goes in right beside Mitchell’s.

The room erupts in chaos. People are screaming and throwing themselves at the floor. There’s glass shattering somewhere. Sasha hardly notices, because, Trinity _ain’t going down_! 

Instead of falling dead to the floor her shock is warping into anger and she takes a step towards them. Mitchell’s gun goes off again, a full barrage right in her chest, tearing it to a bloody mess. Sasha aims for her knees instead, bullets crushing bones and tearing ligaments, making her ( ** _fucking finally!_** ) fall.

Sasha turns to run before she’s even hit the floor, grabbing at Mitchell’s arm briefly to signal retreat. Then he focuses only on escape, with no backward glance. Adrenaline’s flowing, fuelling him. He tears the door open and sets off at a dead run into the night. He hears someone following and turns his head enough to see it’s Mitchell. His partner isn’t even half as fast as him though and the distance between them grows. He can’t see anyone else but he doesn’t slow down. If Mitchell thought he would, he’s overestimated Sasha’s care for his wellbeing. He runs like a homing missile towards the motel. His legs and lungs are burning from the exertion. If anyone sees him running in the dark streets he’s bound to draw attention, loping full speed like a Kenyan olympic runner with a gun in a firm grip. He doesn’t care. They need to get the hell out of this fucking town _right the fuck now!_

He opens the motel door with one solid kick, tearing into the room, holsters his gun and starts packing their things, throwing them into the two bags along with everything in the mini bar―candy, sodas, water and booze alike. He throws a wad of cash on the desk to cover the damages and costs, then grabs the bags and steps outside. To his relief, Mitchell comes running at that moment. 

“ _Get the car!_ ” Sasha calls to him. If he hadn’t shown up he would have driven in Mitchell’s direction first to pick him up (if he was alive enough to be picked up). These kind of situations called for the kind of security thinking you had on airplanes. ‘ _First you put the oxygen mask on your own face,_ then _your child._ ’

Mitchell veers into the parking lot instead of aiming for their room. Sasha jogs towards him as he gets into a car and starts the engine. Mitchell opens the passenger door from the inside for him and steps on the gas as soon as he’s in, before he’s even finished closing the door.

The only noise is both of their harsh panting and the car engine racing as they turn onto the highway. Sasha can hear his own pulse whooshing in his ears. Now they’re out of immediate danger he starts feeling his aches. His bad knee is fucking _pounding_. His legs feels like jelly and burns with lactic acid. He feels light headed and woozy. Adrenaline has burnt most of the sugar in his body and needs to be replenished. He’s fucking drenched in sweat. Enough heat is coming from their bodies to almost fog up the windows.

He pushes the button to open the windows a bit, letting some cool air in. Then he opens the bag and pulls out two water bottles and some chocolate bars from the minibar. He tears one of them open with his teeth and hands to Mitchell. You don’t want your driver to pass out from low blood sugar.

“Thanks.” 

Mitchell gobbles it down hastily. Sasha opens one of the water bottles and hands it to him to chase it down with. He quickly eats his own bar and downs the full content of his own bottle. He takes out two cans of Mountain Dew, handing one of them to Mitchell.

His heart and breathing has started to slow down now, leaving just the jelly-shakes of previous fear and exertion. “I’m getting too old for this shit,” he mutters.

Mitchell emits a laugh with a hysterical edge. “No shit.”

Sasha takes a couple of sips of his soda, grabs his pendant to run it in the seam of his lips. As usual nowadays he twists his hand a bit to let his lips brush against top of the faux warm ring on his finger. When he does, the smell of burnt flesh hits his nostrils. He drops the pendant and turns his hand over to look at the palm-side of his ring. There, along one of the metal stripes, is a thin strip of charred skin. He stares at it, heartbeat speeding up a notch again. 

“Hey… I don’t want to seem like a child believing in fairy tales and ghost stories or anything…” Mitchell says. “But there’s no way I’ll believe Trinity was human. I emptied my fucking mag in her and she was still going strong. She sure as hell wasn’t wearing no bulletproof vest. When I turned around in the door she was struggling to get up. I swear, the only thing preventing her from pursuing us was that you had shot her knees to a pulp. Good thinking by the way. And I saw… I _thought_ I saw… nevermind. I was probably hallucinating out of fear or something.”

“What did you see?” Sasha urges and looks at him, scraping with a nail against his ring to get the burned flesh off it.

Mitchell throws him an uncertain glance. “Man, I think I saw fangs?” He says, voice uncertain and begging Sasha to refute him.

Sasha just nods. To himself as much as to Mitchell. “If you saw fangs, then she had fangs. Whatever she was.” 

“You believe me?”

“Yes. Rethinking my universe as we speak.” He’d rather err on the side of caution. Just like there were often (but not always) a grain of truth in rumours, who’s to say there wasn’t in fairy tales and myths too? Adaptation is the number one key to survival.

“How the fuck did you know? You seen something like that before?”

“No. But I’ve come across things that couldn’t be explained. I think we just found an explanation,” Sasha says.

Mitchell shivers. “That’s no fucking comfort. No fucking comfort _at all_.”

“Cred to you though, for not questioning my gut feeling,” Sasha says. 

Mitchell snorts. “I’m alive because I trust my own gut feeling. And when a man known for _surviving_ tells me there’s something wrong, I’m going to trust there’s something wrong even if my own Jaws-theme hasn’t started playing. The rest was just following your lead. Anything else would be fucking dumb.”

“You’d be surprised by how many calls me a paper tiger and dismiss it.”

“Yeah? And how many of those lived to tell the tale?” Mitchell asks with a contemptuous smirk.

Sasha sniggers. “Only those who followed my lead, you get what I’m sayin?” 

Part of him wants to hurry home to Mikey and tell him of this. He remembers Mikey asking him to report if the ring ever worked. It was a joke. It’s a fucking joke no more. He doubts the wisdom of telling Mikey though. His little boy Mikey is so haunted by demons, telling him monsters are real might be really fucking unwise. But he wants to know the exact location of the store that sold the ring. Apparently the weird shopkeeper knew what he was talking about.

Mitchell, unknowingly, is thinking along a similar line. “The real question is, if you can’t kill a thing like that by pumping it full of bullets… how the fuck do you kill it?”

“That’s what I was thinking of too,” Sasha says. “I’m sure there are people out there who knows. We’ll find out. You ever come across anything like that before?”

“Not like this, but…”

The rest of the car ride they swap stories of unexplainable things they’ve experienced. 

Somehow, it irks Sasha that there are things out there that may be worse than the _Porodica_. That he might not be one of the most dangerous things out there is very dissatisfying. Whatever it is, whatever they are, he’s going to find out how to kill them. 

And woe betide them if they ever have the misfortune to cross paths with him again.

* * *


	5. The REAL Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spreading the Croatoan virus isn't the only mission Doug had for Sasha. He had a much more important reason to bring him home.

* * *

**2014**

* * *

Summer

His footsteps echo in the long hollow corridor of the underground lab. He stops in front of an armoured door, drags his access card through the reader, puts his hand against a plate to be scanned and watches the little lamp turn green as the locks opens. He enters the room and walks through it, ignoring beakers, equipment, lab rats in their cages, and computers. On the other side of the room he swipes his card by another door and punches a six digit code. The door opens into another room he passes through. On the other end of it there’s two doors. He swipes his card again and steps up to let his eyes be scanned. On the other side of this door there's a stairway leading downward. The underground floor he’s currently on isn’t even on the building’s blueprint, the one he’s descending to, even less so. When a бог брат wanted to keep a secret, they sure were paranoid about it. And that wasn’t even counting the armed men patrolling the perimeter and the rest of the building. He’s sure there are hidden cameras covering every nook and cranny on this floor. He goes downstairs to a room with six different doors, all with their own type of locks. He chooses the second one to the left, puts his hand to a plate again.

`Voice recognition program initiated. Please state your name.`

“Aleksandr Chaadayev.”

The lock clicks open and he enters. He’s so far below the ground now he can practically feel the building pressing down on him. It makes his skin itch. There’s a long corridor with tiled walls and floor, doors visible further down. He reaches his arm out to the right to touch the wall and counts to eighteen as he walks, dragging his hand lightly across the wall. When he’s counted to eighteen he stops and gives the wall a push with his hand. A part of the wall slides inward, previously invisible as the cracks melts flawlessly into the seams between the tiles. He crouches down and squeezes himself inside. The wall closes again behind him and a light flickers on. He’s in a room filled with crates, old furniture, and equipment that has passed its due date. There are some paintings on the walls, all looking old and faded.

This whole floor is built like a maze. It’s a warren of rooms and corridors, hidden chambers and death traps. There’s no dust anywhere―the ventilation system sees to that―dust would show where people had walked or touched. The doors that had been visible in the tiled corridor are just distraction and baits, made to fool an enemy. Not a single builder had survived to be able to reveal this secret―they'd all been killed after their job was done. It had been built in different steps, by illegal immigrants nobody would miss. If by any chance a worker would survive, he’d only be able to describe a small portion of this floor. In thousand years, when some archeologist digs the site up, he’d never guess what it was created to protect. It’d probably create myths of doomsday weapons or demi-gods. The thought makes Sasha smirk. Personally he thinks Doug has watched too much Indiana Jones.

He walks to another wall, knocks on it and looks at a painting with a camera cleverly hidden. It takes a minute before the wall swings open and he enters.

_This_ is his goal. A hidden eight room apartment. A nice cozy living space. That’s all.  
Almost.

“Uncle Sassa!” A three year old girl comes running to throw herself at him. He catches her and spins her around in the air before hugging her to his chest.

“Hello, little Rapunzel!” he says and kisses her cheek.

“My name is Bendith,” she corrects him. It means ‘Blessing’ in Welsh. He thinks it’s insane to keep her locked in here, hence he nicknamed her after another locked in princess. But she’s yet to be introduced to that fairy tale.

“I’m sorry, Bendi. It slipped my mind. Is your daddy home?” he asks, knowing the answer already. 

The little girl nods sagely. “Mhm. He’s in the kitchen, baking. Wanna help?”

“You know it, little jewel,” he says and hoists her onto his shoulders. She is what all these paranoid security measures are about. Like Luci has Sam, and Mikey has, well, _him_ ―Doug has Bendi. He’s willing to bet more of the божја браћа has secrets like this, but not all of them. Some would still be loyal to __Otac__ , no matter what. Michael is one of them, despite his own transgressions to the rules. It’s no good, and needs to change. He can’t have Mikey aligning himself against him.

He goes deeper into the apartment, taking a few galloping strides just to hear Bendi squeal in laughter and clinging her little arms around his neck, almost choking him. In the kitchen he stops with a smirk. “Look at you. Throw in a ruffled apron and you'd be the perfect housewife,” he says to Doug, currently placing a tray of cupcakes in the oven. 

“Oh, ha _ha_. Very funny, Aleksandr,” Doug grouses and turns around, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm. “I definitely need one though. Taking care of Bendi is a full time job, and I already _have_ a full time job to do.”

“Daddy says I'm a monster,” Bendi informs him somewhere above his head. 

“That’s right. You’re a little demigod monster tadpole,” Sasha agrees. 

“What’s a tadpole?” 

Sasha twists his head so he can look at Bendi. It makes her shift her grip to grab onto his cheek and wrap an arm around his forehead. “It’s a frog baby. They’re called tadpoles. They don’t look like frogs yet. More like tiny slimy balls with tails. Kind of like sprouts. They've got no arms or legs.”

“But I don’t have a tail. _And_ I've got arms and legs.”

“Yes. But that’s because you're not a frog. You’re a monster tadpole. They look like you. Grown up monsters look like me and your dad.”

“Will I get silver hair too?”

“Not until you’re really, really old.” Bendi looks disappointed and Sasha chuckles. “Tell you what,” he says, swinging her off his shoulders and taking a seat by the table with her in his lap. “If you don’t like the colour of your hair when you’re older than thirteen years old, you can colour it any colour you want.”

Doug who’s been cleaning the workbench stops what he’s doing and mouths ‘ _Thirteen_?’ With raised eyebrows.

“Она будет приходить в ее мятежной фазе относительно. Она будет в любом случае делать это, так что вы могли бы также уволить его,” he says to Doug. (*She'll be coming into her rebellious phase about then. She'll be doing it anyway, so you might as well permit it.) A flicker of stress comes over Doug’s face, making Sasha smirk. Fatherhood had hit Doug like a train. All his focus and goals had changed to protect his daughter. According to protocol she should have been sent to _Otac_ , but they both knew she wouldn’t have lived past the age of one if she had been. Now he had her safety well in hand, but since last year there was no mother in the picture and that brought the realisation that he had to raise Bendi all on his own. Train- _wreck_. Doug wasn’t doing a bad job this far. But Bendi grows, asks questions, wants to go out, wants to meet people. Just protecting her isn’t cutting it anymore.

“ _Any_ colour?” Bendi asks, ignoring his ‘gibberish’ to her dad.

“Yes. Any colour.”

“Even purple?” Bendi asks, face screwed up in skepticism.

Sasha chuckles. “Even purple. Let me show you.” He pulls up his phone and googles ‘purple hair’, handing her the phone so she can see pictures.

“Oh my god, you’re giving her ideas!” Doug exclaims when Bendi coos in delight.

“You can afford a bunch of wigs for her.”

“What’s a wig?”

“It’s a hat made of hair, that looks like real hair, so you don’t have to colour your hair.”

“Ooo. Daddy, I want a wig!” Bendi hops down from Sasha’s lap to show Doug pictures of what kind of wigs she wants, pointing on the pictures of Sasha’s phone. Sasha gets up from the chair and goes to finish cleaning up after Doug’s baking. Doug easily switches, sits down by the table with Bendi in his lap, looking at the pictures and nodding along to Bendi’s all “I want this one, and this one, and this one…”

When Doug realised he couldn’t do this alone and needed someone to confide in, he’d thought of Sasha’s refusal to harm Luci’s dog and the genuine care and loyalty Sasha had always shown him. Because Leo had been betrayed by one of the божја браћа he didn’t know which brothers he could trust not to be a threat to his daughter―hence, he’d brought Sasha here to help him. He wanted help sniffing out which божја браћа could be trusted, along with just _help_. Putting Sasha on the C-virus project gave him a valid excuse in the eyes of his brothers. There was nothing suspicious in that, not even in Doug’s paranoid mind. So Sasha travelled the States with Mitchell, spreading the virus, stopped back here to help out, and acted as the go-between agent when Doug reached out to his brothers. Lucifer was their first option, even though he was in semi-open rebellion, since he had protested _Otac’s_ rules and refused to bend. After seeing Luci with Sam, Sasha’s sure Luci would side with Doug as long as Doug promised his own support. All that was needed now, was for Luci to come visit so Doug could _talk_ to him. 

The best thing about all this is that when Doug decided to make Sasha his confidant he had no problem letting go of the бог брат/Croatoan dynamic. Not like Mikey had. (Still has, to an extent.) No, Doug treats him like an equal and listens to advice. Like he should. It’s true that any бог брат is unruly by nature, but he had the reins on Doug well in hand. 

There was no stand-by duty, so this job left him enough unsupervised time to visit Mikey, and to drop by twin towns to check up on Castiel, biding his time. Doug doesn’t know about Castiel, nor about the nature of his and Mikey’s relationship. Sasha has no intention of telling him. Nor will he tell Mikey about Doug and Bendi. He finds it a bit comical that Doug has gone rogue too. Oh, there was no official term for it for a бог брат, but to hear Doug tell it, the moment he held his newborn daughter in his hands he knew there was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep her. Even if it meant fratricide.

In that department _Otac_ had a point. He’d created a problem by only allowing love within the family and then “solved it” by trying to make sure none of his sons would bond with their offspring. Instead all kids were brought up as siblings. From that perspective it even made sense to kill the daughters. Had they’d been allowed to live in a family that encouraged incest, children would be inevitable. The family would be split in families within, all looking out for their interest instead of the common interest of the Sin-Božji. It was its own kind of twisted brilliance. Sasha hadn’t seen it before, but now he thought that maybe he could be wrong about _Otac_. Maybe the man didn’t want to play mindgames with his sons after all? Maybe he was only looking after his vision, trying to make sure it would last the way he designed it, even after his death? It would make sense if all his sons were like him, dark of heart and dark of soul, incapable of real love. But they weren’t like him.

They might think _Otac_ loves them, but Sasha doesn’t believe that for a moment. The thought of what _Otac_ had allowed to be done to Mikey makes hatred boil in his veins. _Otac_ simply doesn’t understand how love works. If he did, he wouldn’t allow Addi to continuously rape Mikey as a kid, while profess to love them both. Possibly it’s that incomprehension that makes those rules make sense to _Otac_.

_I’ll make you pay for your lack of understanding, old man._ You _made Mikey send me away._ You _stole that from me. I’ll rip your empire to shreds and kill everyone of your sons who’re like you. I’ll protect those who aren’t. Mikey and Doug are my boys now and you can’t have them back. Luci’s mine too. Tyler. All mine. One by one you’ll see them turn their backs on you. I’ll take Liam from you, Brandon, Travis, Kasady, Tamiel, Daniel. I’m going to free them all from your clutches. And Ryan._

How the hell he is going to get ten year old Ryan away from the Heart eludes him. _Otac_ himself is as safe there as Doug is down here. But Ryan has to be saved. 

_It’s all good. You sit safe in your castle, old man. You’ll be able to see Addi die by my hand from there. Then Saul, Bael, Foras, and Jason. I’ll take them all from you one way or another. Your own brothers too. And you won’t know it’s me doing it._

Now he had one more thing on his to-do list, what with that fanged bitch that burned herself on his ring. He needs to find out all he can about her ilk. He hasn’t even gotten started on that.

_All in due time. Somewhere out there, there’s people who know how to kill monsters. I’m going to find them and make them teach me._

He finishes up cleaning and makes a cup of coffee for himself in Doug’s coffee machine. He’s got one of those fancy-ass ones that grinds the beans and lets you regulate temperature and strength. Sasha kind of loves it. Castiel would love it even more. He wants to give Castiel one of these. He wonders if it’s got a timer setting too. That would be perfect. They could both wake up to the smell of freshly made coffee.

He misses Castiel’s violent and grumpy morning temper. Impractical as it is, a little morning fight woke him up beautifully and made him eager to meet the day. Pre-Castiel, he’d scoff if anyone told him he’d enjoy having someone take a swing at him in the morning. Proves what kind of moron he is.

He takes his cup and sits down by the table, listening to Bendi chatter. “Daddy, can Seb get a wig too?” She asks Doug.

“Sure he can, sweetheart.”

“Who’s Seb?” Sasha asks and sips his coffee. He’s never seen anyone else down here, and to his knowledge, Bendi never left the apartment except following Doug upstairs one floor.

Bendi slides off Doug’s lap and climb onto his. “He’s my brother,” she informs him.

“You’ve got a son?” Sasha asks Doug in surprise.

Doug shakes his head. “He’s an, um, unplanned-for leftover, so to speak, from a project I was involved in.” There’s a muscle ticking by his eye. “Until I’ve figured out what to do with him, I let them hang out. She needs to be around other children.”

“He’s litteler than me,” Bendi provides.

“It’s smaller or younger, sweetheart. Not litteler,” Doug corrects her.

“Why?”

“Because litteler is harder to say,” Doug answers, avoiding a long discussion on linguistics. 

Sasha likes this about children. This ever present ‘Why?’. Sure it got obnoxious at times, and sometimes kids would just repeat the question for every answer given, without really listening. But he likes the way they thirst for knowledge. How they take what they hear as the ultimate truth.

Bendi looks at her hand and bends her little- and ring finger inward, then holds up her hand to Sasha. “I’m three years old. Seb is…” she looks at her hand, folding her middle finger too, then holding up the hand for Sasha to see again. “...two years old.” She stands up on his lap and he puts an arm around her to support her, while his other hand rests on the table, holding his cup. Bendi grabs his face and smushes their noses together, tipping her head from side to side so that their eyes seem to jump up and down like a Picasso painting. “He’s got pretty eyes just like you. The same colour,” she explains.

Sasha chuckles. “Does he now? He must be a very handsome boy then.”

Bendi leans far away enough to nod sagely before resuming her nose-pressing Picasso antics.

“Could you go play in your room for a while, little jewel? Uncle Sasha and your dad need to talk grown up talk,” Sasha says.

Bendi turns into deadweight jelly, dropping into his lap. If he hadn’t had his arm around her she would have fallen. “But I want a cupcake,” she whines.

“The cupcakes aren’t done yet. Tell you what, you go play in your room. Then when they’re done I’ll bring you one and play with you for a bit, okay? How does that sound?”

Bendi perks up straight away. “Okay!” She gives him a sloppy kiss on the mouth, slides off his lap and scampers away. 

Sasha dries his lips off with the back of his sleeve and takes a sip on his coffee. “You need to get her a nanny or two. This won’t do. And is this Seb kid the only kid she gets to play with?” he asks when she’s gone.

“This far yes. And how could I get her a nanny? They might talk. I don’t want anyone reveali―” 

Sasha breaks Doug off with a dismissive wave. “I’ll get them for you. I’ll find a couple of desperate refugees or slaves with suitable traits for taking care of her. I’ll offer them a deal of a two year contract and a good, _free_ , life afterwards. Or a good life for their family, if that’s their motivation.”

“Why two years?”

“Because they’ll be kept locked in down here. Two years isn’t such a long time. It will not feel too daunting to be willfully incarcerated for that duration. Hell, even I would agree to that for the right incentive.” Sasha takes a sip of his coffee. “We’ll put them to sleep some way away from here and have them carried down. That way they won’t be able to give up the location of your home. You’ll set up living quarters for them in some of the rooms down here and when you’ll get them for work, they’ll have a black hood over their heads so that they don’t see how to get in and out by themselves. And when they’re set free we put them to sleep again, so they won’t wake up until they’re at their new apartment, with a fresh identity waiting for them.”

“Wait. You mean we’re really going to let them go afterwards?”

Sasha smirks. Of course Doug would think killing them would be the best option. “Yes. We want them to come to love Bendi as their own, and think of you as their saviour and protector. Fear and greed goes a long way. Men and women will kill, cheat, and lie for it. But they’ll go willingly to their death for someone they love. You want that kind of loyalty for Bendi. You don’t want somebody motivated by greed and kept in line by fear, you want somebody motivated by compassion.”

“Like you.”

Sasha snorts a startled laughter. “You божја браћа have such a convoluted view of me. No. Not like me. But you might want to bring someone like me into training her when she’s older, in preparation for when she gets raped.”

“ _When_ she gets raped?”

“Yes. Unless you’re planning to keep her locked in here forever, she will be. She’s a girl.” Sasha takes a perverse joy in the way Doug pales. If he can help it, Bendi will never have to experience it. But with the божја браћа world view it might elude Doug that Bendi will be at risk the moment she sets foot outside the door. The shock value of the statement is to jar Doug into awareness of the differences between raising a girl and a boy.

“We’ll teach her self-defense. She’ll be fine.”

Sasha shakes his head. “No. You need to make her mentally strong. It will happen, Doug. If she’s lucky, it will be a guy she loves, that loves her back, who’s just too drunk one night to get that she doesn’t want to. Easy to forgive, and he’ll be eaten by shame and guilt the day after when she says how she felt about it. If that’s her only brush with this shit, then we’ll be fine. But just like you’re brought up to see mudmonkeys like nothing but extras that exist for you to do as you please with, mudmonkeys are brought up to see women that way. I bring this up this early, because I need you to get into her head from the beginning, that it’s not her fault when a guy doesn’t stop when she says no. I want that to be ingrained into her very being, that she’s being wronged when it happens, and not buy into the bullshit they’ll tell her. I want her to be angry, to have that anger to protect her spirit. She’ll be told it’s her fault. She’s drunk, didn’t guard her drink enough, led the guy on, wore too sexy clothes, is a slut, wasn’t careful enough, whatever. In the world’s eyes she’ll be guilty, not her rapist.”

Doug makes a face. “Fuck. This is so fucked up. I can’t even imagine her as ever being sexually active.”

“Addi would,” Sasha says offhandedly and takes another sip of his coffee, watching the way it makes Doug squirm uncomfortably. Underneath his skin hatred burns.

“He’s never getting anywhere near my daughter.”

“Did he ever go for you?” Sasha fishes.

“What do you mean?” Doug’s gaze flickers nervously. Sasha raises an eyebrow and gives him a _don’t-play-games-with-me-I-already-know_ look. It doesn’t take long before Doug makes a face, surrendering. “No. I wasn’t good enough for him.” Doug looks down and fiddles with the hem of his shirt. He’s quiet for a beat. “You know what’s fucked up? I used be jealous of the others who got his special attention. He was extra nice to them. Took extra care of them. I hated that I wasn’t good enough for extra treatment. He’s my big brother, and I wanted him to love me as much as some of the others. So I was jealous. It wasn’t until he called one day after Bendith was born… I was watching her sleep in her crib, answered the phone and heard his voice… We talked, you know, just randomly chatted, when he mentioned that he just got a new set of wares delivered, age one to four… Bendi wasn’t even one yet and I just,.. It hit me then, you know? How fucking _wrong_ it is. I hadn’t really seen it before.”

And isn’t that just a special level of fucked up. “Who were ‘special’ to him?”

Doug shakes his head and gives Sasha a look. “I don’t want to talk about this. But you’re right. Bendi needs good self-esteem. _And_ to be around other adults and kids. Christ! I’m not cut out for fatherhood.” The kitchen clock goes off and he gets up to remove his cupcakes from the oven.

“No one is. Don’t start her combat training until she’s six or seven, and skip the lessons you got in the basement at the Heart.”

Doug sets the tray on the stove to cool down and turns around. “Why? That’s useful knowledge.”

Sasha snorts. “Yeah. If you’re a sadistic swine. Torture isn’t even extremely effective when you want to gather intel.”

“Everybody breaks under torture, Aleksandr. They’ll tell you anything.”

“I know. I’ve been subjected to it a couple of times when I was younger. But you don’t want people to tell you _anything_ , you want them to tell you the truth. Me? I sang like a lyrebird,” Sasha says and leans back in the chair, lacing his fingers together behind his head. This was also part of why he prefered softer methods of information extraction. His favourite drug for the purpose gave the mark a pleasant enough high, but was not a good combination with pain. That’s why he always combined it with strong painkillers if the mark was injured. Even without drugs, using torture, it wasn’t the torture in itself that was most effective, it was making the mark think you could save them from it. Let someone else do the dirty work, then play the role of a possible saviour.

“You did? _You_ did?” Doug says skeptically and comes back to sit by the table. “I’ve never heard about you fucking up any missions.”

Sasha’s lips quirk upward in an arrogant smirk. “Of course not. Not with the bullshit I told them. For example, I gave a fantastic modern adaption of H.C Andersen’s ‘The Steadfast Tin Soldier’, in a way that made them think I was giving them useful information. But not useful enough for them to kill me. I know a lot of fairy tales.”

“Fairy tales, huh?” Doug says with an amused smirk.

“Mhm. Like H.C. Andersen, the brothers Grimm, old folk tales. I’ve always loved them. And preferably not the Disney versions. I mean the cautionary dark tales of the past.”

Doug’s eyes widen as he’s struck by a memory. “You told us the little mermaid. But the sea witch cut off her tongue, making her mute when she transformed the mermaid’s tail. And the prince fell in love with another princess, so the mermaid’s heart broke and she turned into sea foam. I had forgotten you did that.”

Sasha can’t remember doing it, but it seems like him. “Sounds about right.”

Doug gets up with a wistful smile and a faraway look, the kind you have when you get lost in old memories, and goes to put frosting on the cupcakes. Sasha’s phone rings. It’s still on the table after Bendi looking at pictures on it. Sasha sees the caller ID and quickly snatches it up. “Excuse me for a moment, I need to take this,” he tells Doug and leaves the room. When he’s in the living room, out of earshot (he hopes) he answers. “Miss me already, huh?” He says, lips curving upward and rubbing his thumb against the side of his ring.

“Yes. I’m bored. Are you around? Get your ass over here,” Mikey says testily and snaps his fingers by the receiver. Sasha can practically see him, impatient scowl in place. Sasha’s smile widens, something warm and content unfolding in his chest. He plops himself down on the couch and lies down.

“I’m not even in the same state, pretty little boy,” he teases, knowing that will cause an indignant expression he wishes he could see.

“Well hop on a fucking plane then. And don’t call me that.”

“Sorry. No can do. You’ll have to wait. I’m working. And why wouldn’t I? Are you not a boy?” Sasha continues to tease. “You’re smaller than me, and you’re oh, so pretty when you―”

Mikey hisses in frustration on the other side, breaking him off. “ _Lexi_! You’re doing this on purpose you little bitch. What’s the point, if you can’t get yourself over here?”

“You kept me away for two fucking years. You can wait a day or three. You need me that badly, _you_ hop on a plane.” The old bitterness keeps returning when he least expecting it, bleeding through his words. Why forgive and forget, when you can resent and remember?

“Where are you?” 

“Doug’s lab. We’ve got a couple of things to go through before I can get going again.”

“Fuck. Can’t come there. If he’d hear I went there without visiting him he’d ask why.”

Sasha’s eyebrows raise in surprise. He’d never suspect Mikey would even consider actually coming to him. “You okay, baby boy?” he asks, voice soft.

The endearment probably causes Mikey to gnash his teeth. He’d probably have an aneurysm if he knew Sasha would have prefered to call him ‘baby girl’. “I’m fucking fine. I can get my kicks elsewhere. I don’t need you.”

Sasha chuckles warmly. If Mikey is aiming for emotional manipulation, that’s not the right way to go about it. “Fair enough. Problem solved then. If that’s all, Sir?”

Michael whines. Fucking _whines_. Sasha drags his faux warm ring over his smiling lips, chest warm. Mikey needs him. _He_ knows that, no matter how much Mikey denies it. He wishes he was working the C-virus with Mikey instead of Mitchell. It’s summer. Mikey could swing it. But Mikey wouldn’t want it in fear of Doug catching on, and Doug wouldn’t want it because he wouldn’t be able to explain why he needed Sasha to ‘disappear’ in the lab for hours or days on end. “Lex.” It’s all Mikey says. He doesn’t follow it up by anything, just the nickname, and still it says so much more.

“Don’t worry, Carver. I’ll be with you soon enough. Just hold on a while longer and I’ll take good care of you.”

Mikey is quiet.

“Can you do something for me, baby boy?” Sasha asks when Mikey doesn’t answer.

“What?”

“Draw us. Draw what you wanted us to be doing if I could magically appear at your doorstep right now.”

Michael is quiet for a beat again. “I don’t know…” he says hesitantly.

“You know, I love to watch you draw. Love to see you that calm and focused. The whole room transforms when you’re working. It’s in your aura, you get what I’m sayin? I think of it sometimes when I’m on the road, riding shotgun with my partner, or just before I go to sleep. It puts something inside of me at peace.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I wish you’d draw more when I’m over. It’s part of my, what’s that they call it? My happy place.”

“Really?” Mikey says in a tone of wonder, like it’s a big deal and hard to understand. Why would it be? Art is a huge fucking part of who Mikey really is, and he’s only shared it with Sasha. It’s one of the best parts of him. A part that _Otac_ hadn’t been able to corrupt. After Sasha had found Mikey’s art journals, when he stayed a couple of days to keep an eye on Mikey’s concussion (and withdrawals from the drugs Sasha had flushed), Mikey had drawn him. Sasha loved the change that came over him when he brought out his art materials and started to draw. It was like the whole room had breathed out in relief and time stopped. Sasha couldn’t put a finger on it, but it was precious to him. 

“Yes, really. If it didn’t hurt so fucking much I’d let you use my body as a canvas too.”

Mikey chuckles. “There’s such a thing as body paint. I don’t have to use my knife, dumbass.”

“Mh. Then maybe you should buy some. You get what I’m sayin?” Sasha says with a smile and winks. Mikey can’t see it of course, but body language has a way of colouring speech and his playfulness shines through.

“Maybe I will. Anything particular you want me to paint on you?”

“No. You’re my little artist. I trust that whatever you do, it will look good.” Mikey makes a sound that sounds suspiciously like a giggle. Sasha grins and drags his pendant along his lower lip, feeling warm and content. Doug knocks on the door post and sticks his head in with raised eyebrows. Sasha holds up a finger to signal for Doug to wait a minute. “I got to go now, pretty one. Boss-man’s calling for attention. I’ll call you later, okay?”

Mikey snorts in amusement at him calling Doug ‘boss-man’, but he gets why. Their conversation needs to be altered not to reveal who Sasha’s talking to. “Yeah, sure.”

“Oy, and one last thing.”

“What?”

“I miss you too,” Sasha says, smile firmly in place before hanging up and rising from the couch.

“Girlfriend?” Doug implores curiously.

“No. He’s―” Sasha starts saying but is cut off.

“ _Boyfriend_?”

Sasha scowls, following Doug to the kitchen. “ _No_. He’s just a friend.”

Doug gives him a playful shove on the shoulder. “ _Mmhm_. Like hell he is. Not with that smile on your face while talking to him.”

Sasha rolls his eyes. “Just. A. Friend,” he persists.

“Sure he is. Does he know that?” Doug teases.

“Of course he does.”

“Right. Right.” Doug puts two cupcakes with pink frosting and cherries on top on a small tray then sing songs “ _Aleksandr’s got a boyfriend._ ”

“Fuck’s sake. You’re twenty seven, not five. Cut it out.”

Sasha’s protests just makes Doug laugh. “What’s his name? How did you meet? How old is he? You’ve got a picture? Come on, talk to me!”

Despite himself Sasha sniggers in bemusement. “The answer to all of those questions is, _none of your fucking business_. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a cupcake date with a little lady,” he says and snatches the tray from Doug’s hands, making Doug laugh again.

Sasha smiles to himself as he leaves Doug in the kitchen. As annoying as that was, it’s also proof that Doug has fully accepted him as something completely other than a Croatoan. No amount of needling would make him betray Mikey’s identity. There would be needling. He’s sure of it. He’s got one or two days here to put up with it while he and Doug worked out the specifics of what needed to be acquired in the form of human resources for Bendi, all the while playing with her and answering her endless stream of questions. He supposes he could give up some details just to shut Doug up. ‘A thirty something artist I met on a job’. No lies, yet still very far from the truth. Nothing that would lead to Doug guessing anything. Yes, that’d do it.

Speaking of artists…

“Uncle Sassa! Look! I drew a picture of you,” Bendi greets him when he enters her room and proudly presents a picture drawn with silver crayon. It’s just a potato with legs and arms with a mouth, nose, eyes and hair. It doesn’t matter. He coos about how impressed he is anyway. Then there’s a tea party to be had with her dolls while eating cupcakes. Bendi explains things for him with absolute certainty because her daddy told her this or that, and barrage him with questions. “Why does birds have feathers? Why are your legs so hairy? (He’d pulled up his pant leg to scratch a bug bite) Why does it rain? Where does water come from? Why don’t people have fur? When will my _pee_ -niss grow out? Seb already got his.” He answers anything as truthfully as he can while sitting on her purple miniature chair by her purple miniature table.

He’s happy about this. He may never father any children of his own, but at least he gets to be an uncle to somebody. It’s not a bad substitute. He wishes he could spend more time here. But then again, he wishes he could spend more time with Mikey. And more time in twin towns, checking up on Castiel. It’s a fucking bother that his interests are all spread out. Addi can thank his lucky star he’s on another continent, currently out of reach. Any time he thinks of the oldest бог брат hatred curl viciously under his ribcage.

_As soon as I get some spare time I’ll come for you. So make the best of your time because you’ll draw your last breath soon, asshole. I’ll never forgive you what you did to my little boy Mikey. You’ll be the first to go._

After Bendi’s been put to bed for the night (with the subsequent major tantrum of an over-tired child that doesn’t want to go to sleep in case she misses something exciting), the barrage of questions continues. This time from Doug. He’s got in his head that Sasha somehow knows anything about parenting. Funny really, that particular misconception. It doesn’t stop Sasha from answering everything with the same certainty as he answered Bendi’s questions. Doug needs it. If there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that men follow those who seem to be confident in what they’re doing and saying. So as long as Sasha is confident, Doug will be too.

For now, he may not have enough spare time for everything on his agenda, but hopefully, time is on his side…

* * *


	6. Festering Wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his stop over at Doug's, Sasha heads straight to Mikey. Emotions flare hotter than he expected they would.

* * *

**2014**

* * *

Summer

Sasha nods to the Croatoans on guard outside of the high rise. They both give him a little nod in return. The portier is a Croatoan too, and snaps to attention when he walks through the lobby. He ignores the man, heading straight to the elevator. Mannerheim, the portier, is Mikey’s current head of security. Sasha hates him by default.

He rides the elevator up and then lets himself in with the key he’s had made by pilfering Mikey’s keys when he was down and out. It’s easier than picking the locks each time he comes here.

He can hear voices from the bedroom, and a jacket lies on the couch. Instantly peeved, he goes through the jacket, checking the pockets. No wallet, but a shitload of small bags of cocaine.

_A fucking pusher._

Judging by the sounds coming from the bedroom, Mikey’s indulging in more than just cocaine.

Sasha digs up his phone and calls one of the guards, Peters, downstairs, deliberately skipping the asshole who’s supposed to be in charge. Fuck him. Sasha outranks him by miles anyway. It picks up on second ring. “This is Chaadayev. I’ll be taking out some trash in a moment. Take care of it.” He hangs up before the “ _Yes, Sir_ ” is even fully uttered.

He makes his way straight to the bedroom in long strides. Mikey is shirtless, making out with the guy on the bed, the guy on top. The pusher’s gun is still tucked into the back of his pants, sending a hot wave of anger through Sasha. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Mikey doesn’t notice him entering. He goes straight for the window, opening it wide. That’s when they notice they’re not alone in the room.

The pusher sits up straddling Mikey, frowning at Sasha. “Whatta? Who the fuck are _you_?”

Sasha doesn’t answer. Instead he takes two long strides to the bed, and in one smooth movement yanks the gun out of the pusher’s pants, throws it to the floor, and punches him straight on the nose. The pusher cries out and moves his hand towards his broken nose. Sasha doesn’t give him any time to process. He grabs him by the hair and the belt, heaving him off Mikey with a cruel grimace. The guy’s not that big or heavy, just one of those slick slim fuckers who wear pink button ups and has blonde backslicks, perfect for grabbing. The pusher cries out in pain again, this time by how his balls get squeezed by the seam in his pants and how his neck is bent by the grip on his hair. The pain is all the distraction Sasha needs to take a few steps and in a swinging motion heave the pusher straight out the window. By the time the guy realises his predicament he’s already free falling from the 18th story and Sasha’s closing the window again.

He turns around and glares at Mikey who’s sitting up staring at him with a _dude-what-the-fuck?_ expression. Sasha’s too fucking angry to find words, red in the face and nostrils flaring. Mikey shakes his head shortly, raising his eyebrows further, as to prompt Sasha to speak.

“Of all the things I don’t want greeting me when I come home, you decided to check every one. One, drugs, lots of them. Two, an armed man who could've been here to kill you. Three, a guy putting his _filthy fucking hands and mouth all over you!_ FUCK. I can’t even look at you right now,” Sasha spits and throws his hands up. He stalks towards the door and Mikey urgently bounces out of bed to follow.

“Hey! I haven’t taken anything yet. Besides, I didn’t know you’d come here today. I thought you were still at Doug’s lab,” Mikey protests, missing the point. He makes a grab for Sasha’s arm but Sasha yanks himself free.

“ _DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME_!”

Mikey stops, taken aback by Sasha’s anger. Sasha’s fuming as he leaves the apartment, slamming the door behind himself. In the elevator down he digs up his jar of goodies and takes a pill out. He closes the lid and puts the jar back. He steps out of the elevator, heading straight towards the portier. “Mannerheim, you’re up for an interview and I need truthful answers. This is a review of your command. I want you to take this truth serum, to make sure no lies come out,” he says and holds out the pill.

Mikey’s head of security looks alarmed, as well as he should, letting a man loaded with drugs and a handgun go up to Michael. “Yes, Sir,” Mannerheim says and takes the pill Sasha holds out. He’s so fucking stupid for doing it Sasha wants to punch him. To be fair, he’s wanted to punch him since he first laid eyes on the guy. And to reach this position he can’t be that stupid. Sasha already knows how a man like that, would be able to pass head of security. On Mikey’s specific _order_. But he doesn’t give a shit. They’re supposed to keep the божја браћа safe. This wouldn’t be the first time this has happened, and if you feel you can’t keep a бог брат safe you ask for a transfer to a position you feel you can do a better job at. This is a problem of power. A head of security holds command over several other Croatoans. He’s treated with deference. Many Croatoans treasure that. Many Croatoans―like Mannerheim―want to keep that position. It comes with status Sasha never coveted. (And look at him now.) He’s learned to a much higher degree, how many Croatoans coveted status since he got his ridiculous ‘A’. Even if he never wanted it, he enjoyed it more than he wants to admit. Especially in moments like this, when Mannerheim swallows the pill without question, even though he must be feeling the ‘ _off_ ’-vibes coming off Sasha.

Sasha starts asking routine questions, not _actually_ listening to the answers. They’re bullshit answers anyway. That’s not the point. The point is to pass a minute or two, waiting for the pill to take effect. Suddenly Mannerheim’s eyes go round, he pales, and gets sweaty. He’s probably starting to feel nauseated and weak right about now too. “What… what did you give me?”

“What you deserve,” Sasha answers coldly, watching Mannerheim’s knees buckle. 

Mannerheim fumbles for his gun, clutches at his chest, face contorting in pain. He never gets his gun out of its holster before he goes into cardiac arrest.

Sasha holds back the urge to spit at him.

_Fucking idiot. That was faster and less painful than you deserve for putting my Mikey in danger._

He turns on his heel and strides out of the building. Peters got things well in hand. He informs Peters that Mannerheim had an unfortunate heart attack and that he’s in temporary command until Michael assigns a new permanent head of security. The displeased face Peters makes pleases Sasha. At least the guy realises what responsibility he’s been charged with.

Satisfied things are being taken care of, Sasha leaves the perimeter. It’s only been a few minutes since he exited Mikey’s apartment and he’s still fuming internally.

He has no idea where to go now. Hop on a plane back to Doug? Twin towns? 

_No. Fuck everything. I need a drink._

He walks down the street, passing several bars until he reaches an Irish pub. He enters and takes a seat by the bar, ordering a beer and a whiskey, downing both too quickly and ordering a refill.

He sees a familiar figure enter the pub out of the corner of his eye and the anger boils within him, flaring hotter again.

“You’re jealous. That’s it, isn’t it?” Mikey says from behind him, voice somewhere between incredulity and anger.

Sasha grunts and downs his second whiskey.

“You think you own me? You think you somehow have the right to decide who I fuck when you’re away?” Mikey asks. A quick side eye glance reveals that he stands with his arms crossed over his chest, righteous anger in his whole demeanor. “ _Answer me_ , croat.”

Sasha turns around on the stool only to give Mikey a disgusted look, before turning his back again, fingering his ring with his thumb.

“You’re way out of line, croat. Who I fuck is none of your fucking business.” When Sasha doesn’t answer him he grabs Sasha’s shoulder.

Sasha spins around and pushes him hard enough to make him stumble backwards. “I said _don’t touch me_. Are you fucking deaf?!”

Michael’s not hiding his surprise and outrage, staring at him as if the world just turned upside down. Sasha meets his glare head on.

“You’re right,” Sasha says. “I have no say in who you let put their filthy, disgusting, unworthy fingers on you. The only one I’ve got the right to decide over, is me. And you want to act like some common crack whore, demeaning yourself with some jetset wannabe drug peddling guy just to get high, you go ahead and do that. But don’t come near me, with any part of your body afterwards.” He makes a grossed out sound and turns his back again, taking a big gulp of his beer, then rubs his ring back and forth over his lips. 

Mikey snorts. “But was throwing him out the window really necessary?”

“That? That was me doing my fucking _job_ , protecting a бог брат from a very clear fucking threat. The guy was still armed for fuck sake. And I’m betting the drugs he brought wasn’t from us. It could be any fucking dirty shit. It might kill you if he didn’t.”

“You’ve got no ri―”

“You want me to call your brothers and explain why Mannerheim got a heart attack?” The question shuts Mikey right up. “You want me to tell them you’re using drugs and forsaking your safety to do it, and that he was helping you by _not doing his fucking job_?”

“You wouldn’t.” Mikey says. It’s a statement but he makes it sound like a question. Like he’s doubting Sasha’s loyalty. Which _also_ pisses Sasha off.

“Of course, I wouldn’t!” Sasha spins around on his chair again and glares at Mikey. “I’ve never betrayed any of your secrets and I ain’t about to start now. I’m chin deep in this shit too, remember?” Mikey frowns, but it’s a concerned frown, not an angry one. “Feelings, Mikey. I’ve got them too. You’ve stomped all over them once, and I won’t have it happening again. It’s bad enough I have to worry about your safety when I’m away, I don’t need the extra burden added that I might walk in on you with some other guy when I get home.”

“ _Home_?”

“Don’t mark my fucking words!” Sasha roars with a deep scowl and gestures angrily with a hand before turning away again for the upteenth time, flagging the bartender for more whiskey. The bartender warily gives him a full refill, but looks like he really wants to tell Sasha to leave. Fuck him. Sasha gives him a look, challenging him to try, and the bartender edges back to the furthest part away from them inside the bar. “Don’t play with my feelings, pretty boy. I don’t deserve it,” he much more calmly tells Mikey, not looking at him. He hasn’t got a home. No need to get stuck on wording. Home is wherever he laid his hat. Like it’s always been. 

Mikey slowly slides onto the barstool beside Sasha, waving to the bartender to get a whiskey of his own, but keeping his eyes on Sasha. He gets his drink, sipping it, looking like he’s trying to figure something out, and remains quiet.

“I’m the real fool in this, Mikey. Just look at me. I’ve gotten this ridiculous haircut, because you like it this way, you get what I’m sayin? I came here today, thinking I’d try give you a fucking BJ. Ain’t going to happen now. Which is probably for the best considering it’d be my first time, so I’d suck at it.” He hears the hidden pun the moment it comes out of his mouth and makes a frustrated sound. Luckily for Mikey, he doesn’t remark on it or Sasha might have thrown a punch. “We should never have involved sex in the first place.”

“You’ve seen me have sex with people loads of times. I thought you liked watching. Why the sudden change?” Mikey asks like he genuinely doesn’t get it. 

“Those were _women_ ,” Sasha snaps irritably. 

“You make a distinction between men and women?”

“Of course I do! Women’s got a pussy, I don’t. There’s nothing to compete with.” Sasha snorts. “I can’t even make love to you properly. Your asshole brother saw to that. At least I don’t have to worry about finding someone balls deep inside of you. So there’s a fucking upside to everything.”

“Don’t get fucking high and mighty with me, Lex. Don’t pretend you don’t fuck men as well as women while you’re away.”

Sasha fucking growls. “Yeah, but there’s a distinct fucking difference, Cinderella.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” Mikey challenges coldly.

“You don’t care. You don’t fucking _care_. _You_ sent me away. _You_ knew I was up for isolation the day you slapped the stupid A on my chest. _You_ knew all I fucking wanted was someone to be myself around, and you made it virtually impossible. You don’t fucking care what I feel about things, as long as your wants are fulfilled.” He pokes Mikey in the chest with every ‘you’ to underline his statements.”I’m just a fucking possession to you, and I keep thinking I’m more than that, because you’re more than a fucking duty to me! You get what I’m saying? We’re friends, remember? At least, I’m _your_ friend. Now get the hell out of my face. I can fucking smell his cologne from here.” He ends his rant, turns to stare grumpily into his whiskey, grabs his pendant and runs it in the seam of his lips, twisting his hand to drag his ring against his lips in every turn.

He feels, rather than sees, Mikey staring at him. Mikey then drains his whiskey, slaps some money on the counter, and leaves.

_Where the hell did that shit come from? I’m acting like a butthurt fucking princess._

He has no idea he felt some of the things he said before they were out of his mouth. He isn’t even particularly concerned about overstepping his boundaries with a бог брат. He thinks about his brief conversation with Doug on the topic of Mikey.

***~~***~~***

“ _Boyfriend_?”

“ _No_. He’s just a friend.”

“ _Mmhm_. Like hell he is. Not with that smile on your face while talking to him.”

“Just. A. Friend.” 

“Sure he is. Does he know that?” 

“Of course he does.”

***~~***~~***

“Fuck,” he says out loud.

 _We’re acting like we’re fucking dating, aren’t we? I’m acting like a jealous fucking boyfriend._ He’s _grown up with communal thinking of sexual partners. Of course it’d be a fucking mystery to him why I’d have a freak out about finding him in bed with someone else. Sex isn’t an emotional fucking trigger for him._

He has no idea what to do with these thoughts. What they mean. More than this insistent feeling that Mikey is _his_ , and he doesn’t feel like sharing. At the same time, he’s not up for letting himself be spoken for. If Mikey had kept him by his side, letting things run its course, instead of sending him away, then maybe things would be different. Maybe then the thought of actually being in a committed relationship with the бог брат wouldn’t seem like a huge fucking _NO WAY_. But he'd been more hurt by being ditched than he cares to admit to himself. You could develop cherophobia for less. Not that he was afraid of being happy. But there were considerable trust issues dividing them.

_So if we aren't just friends, and we're definitely not boyfriends, because fuck you, Mikey! What are we?_

_Currently nothing but a_ бог брат _and his loyal croat captain. I told him to go fuck himself, and he did. It’s over._

He got wounded when he was sent away, and the wounds have festered. He blames _Otac_ and Addi for all this. No death would be gruesome enough for those two. 

_So what the fuck do I do now?_

He should get out of here and go find himself a decent hotel. Fuck it, make that a penthouse suite, he can afford it. Get some girls up to distract him. Then maybe call Mitchell and shoot some shit. Anything to get his mind off Mikey. It’s not like he doesn’t have other things on his plate than Michael. 

But he strays put, getting himself increasingly drunk, wanting to go home. Too bad he told “home” to get out of his face. He refuses to admit to himself that his feelings for Michael might be a bit more than just platonic with a side-order of lust. Anything else is just getting himself into a pit full of vipers. His anger fades and is traded for tiredness as time wears on. He closes his eyes and rubs his temples to stave off an oncoming headache, ignoring people’s comings and goings behind his back―a wildly reckless thing for someone like him to do.

Two hands are placed on either side of him on the bardisk, someone leaning close enough towards his back to _almost_ touch. The only thing stopping Sasha from spinning around in full defense mode is the scent of a familiar after shave. “You showered,” he states flatly, instead of expressing his surprise about Mikey coming back.

“Yes. Can I touch you now?” Michael answers. His voice is calm and neutral.

Instead of answering, Sasha leans back enough feel Mikey’s body heat bleed through their clothes at his back. Something inside of him sighs in relief.

Mikey nuzzles his neck.

“We shouldn’t be doing this where we could be seen,” Sasha says and tips his head to the side to give Mikey better access.

Mikey kisses his neck, drags his teeth lightly against tender skin. “I know. But I want to.”

“I miss you when we’re apart, Cinderella,” Sasha admits.

“Why do you call me that?”

_Because_ Otac _is your wicked stepmother, and your brothers are working you to death. (Granted, they don’t know it.) Because I want to be the one who put the glass slipper on your foot and set your soul free,_ Sasha doesn’t say.

“Because you’re one of my princesses.”

“One of…? Who else? That Collins guy?”

“Yes.”

A low chuckle and Mikey’s arms slip around his waist. “I can live with that. Anyone else?” 

Sasha shakes his head, keeping his eyes closed.

“I’m not going to apologize for what happened today,” Mikey says and rubs his nose against Sasha’s neck.

Sasha’s lips quirk in the tiniest smile. “I’m not expecting you too, бог брат.”

“Please, don’t do that...” Michael whispers so quietly Sasha nearly doesn’t hear it. But he does hear it, and it’s a relief that Mikey doesn’t want this to be coloured by their professional power imbalance. 

“I’m not going to apologise either, Mikey boy. Whatever I might have felt seeing you with that piece of human trash, every action I took was justified by my job description.”

Mikey’s mouth forms a smile against his neck. It’s a full smile, Sasha can feel teeth against his skin. “I know. I’m not mad. Even if throwing him out of the window was stretching it a bit. All that was missing was a snarky one-liner to follow it up.”

“ _Bon Voyage_ ,” Sasha counters and sniggers. He opens his eyes, turns his head and grins at Mikey. Mikey grins back, eyes full of humour.

“That’d do it,” Mikey agrees. Sasha smirks, raises his glass to take a sip, and notices it’s empty again. He raises his hand to flag down the bartender for more, but Mikey catches his hand, stopping him. “You’re drunk enough already. Let's go home,” he says.

“Fair enough,” Sasha agrees. Mikey lets go of him and digs up his own wallet while Sasha slides off the stool to discover he’s far from steady on his legs.

Mikey settles the bill with the bartender, throwing in a hefty tip “for the inconvenience earlier.” Then he hitches an arm around Sasha’s midriff to help him keep his balance. He leads Sasha out to a waiting car. Peters is behind the wheel. His face doesn’t give much away when Mikey bundles Sasha into the back of the car and gets in beside him.

Sasha, unable to switch himself off completely, leans forward and sticks his head between the two front seats as they drive off. “Oyy, Peters. Give me a rundown of actions taken since I left.”

“You want it in regular speak or simplified for understanding while drunk, Sir?” Peters says with a straight face, voice dry.

Sasha sniggers. “Sass. I like that,” he says, grinning. “The fundamentals of walking may be slightly difficult to understand at the moment. Words are not. Report.”

Peters meets his eyes through the rearview mirror, eyes twinkling with mirth and a smile growing on his face. “Yes, Sir…” he says and proceeds to give a full update during the drive. The guy is sharp. He'd be perfect for head of security for Michael. 

When Mikey helps him into the elevator Mikey asks “You always let them sass you like that?”

“If they have spine enough to sass me, but still do a good job, I'm going to like them. They will be likely to dare point out when I miss something. You must know it's a problem when they’re afraid to speak their mind.”

“I guess… I just feel he should show you proper respect.”

“You божја браћа so often mistake fear for respect. I fear you, because you’re fucking insane and powerful. But I _respect_ you because of your personalities, skills, and wits.”

“Insane are we?” Mikey says with a playful smirk that makes Sasha’s alarm bells ring a first warning. He’s too drunk and should watch his mouth. He has to remind himself that Mikey may have accepted what they are (whateverfuck _that_ is), but he refuses to step out of _Otac's_ shadow. Unlike with Doug, he still has to watch what he says, to a degree.

“You are. And it seems I am too, because it fucking does it for me,” he says, nudging the conversation in another direction, and leers down at Mikey, still supporting him.

Mikey helps him into the apartment, wearing an amused smile. It has guestrooms. If Sasha visits a бог брат he’s put in close quarters with them, still acting the poster boy for other Croatoans. Naturally, he’s never set foot in Mikey’s guestrooms except for to search them when Mikey was down and out. If he’s being taken there, Mikey can go fuck himself―he’s out. “It does it for you, huh?”

“Mhm.” He’s being towed straight to Mikey’s bedroom. At least they agree on where he’s sleeping tonight.

“You know what does it for me?” Mikey says with impish humour.

“Pray tell.”

“You, throwing a guy out of a window for me. Fuck, Lexi. You should have seen yourself. Like a silent god of thunder.”

Sasha chuckles. “I can’t be both Thor and Captain America, pretty boy.” When they enter the bedroom he notes that the sheets has been changed since he was here a couple of hours ago. Mikey had taken him seriously when he’d said he didn’t want to be able to smell the other man.

“Apparently, you can. I should make you jealous more often.”

Sasha frees himself from Mikey’s arm, spins around and grips Mikey’s jaw, pointing in his face with the other hand. “Don’t fuck with my emotions, Michael,” he growls, scowling.

“I haven’t cut myself since you left, Lex.”

Of all the things to say, that was the last thing he expected. He lets go of Mikey’s jaw and leans their foreheads together. “You holding up, baby boy?” he asks, softer. Too much of his anger stems from worry. The switch between the two emotions is seamless.

Mikey shakes his head. “Not really. Lex, you told me to stop cutting and to stop with the drugs. I can’t do both. Not when you’re away. I’m struggling.” He wraps his arms around Sasha’s waist and Sasha’s arms come around to hold him. 

_You take some truth serum by mistake, Mikey boy?_

The straightforward honesty is surprising, yet Mikey seems neither high nor drunk.

“You chasing a high or keeping demons at bay?”

“Demons.”

“So we’re stuck between a rock and a hard place then.”

“I’m going to keep taking drugs. They keep me stable for longer.”

“They don’t make you stable, they create an illusion of stability while dragging you down.”

“You don’t know what it’s like…” Mikey says.

Sasha steps away from Mikey and thumps down on the bed. “That’s right. I don’t know what goes on in your head. So why don’t you tell me?” He says and fumbles with the side-zipper on his boots, kicking them off and then removes his socks.

Mikey puts his hands in his pockets and watches Sasha undress. He runs his tongue over his teeth under closed lips, thinking. Then he shakes his head and looks away.

“If I don’t know what we’re trying to counter I can’t help you properly, you get what I’m saying?” Sasha says and removes his jacket, throwing it across the room to land on the armchair. His holster gets the same treatment. “If you’re going to insist on taking that shit, we’re going to have to figure out what you’re going to take and how much. I don’t like it. it’s fucking dangerous, Mikey. Believe me. I’ve O.D’d, I know,” he says and pulls both shirts over his head in one go, dropping them on the floor.

Mikey’s head snap to him. “You’ve O.D’d?” This was news to him. Sasha hadn’t talked a lot of his pre- _Porodica_ time with Mikey. Or with anyone for that matter.

“Yeah. Sure. Dead for several minutes. Would have remained that way unless my recruiter hadn’t acted fast when he saw me starting to have trouble. Thanks to him I was already in the hospital when I went into cardiac arrest.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. I was hooked badly on drugs back then. You gonna stand there all night? Get yourself naked and come to bed. We’ll talk,” Sasha prompts and peels his jeans and underwear off in one go. He crawls down under the comforter and lies waiting while Mikey urgently divests himself of his clothes. Sasha chuckles. 

_Like a child being bribed with candy._

Sasha holds the comforter up for Mikey to crawl in under it and―after an unspoken question if he may―slot himself against Sasha’s side, resting on his shoulder. Sasha combs his fingers through Mikey’s hair. It’s nice. Fuck other guys. Fuck titles. Fuck the world. Mikey is _his_.

“Had you killed anyone before you got recruited?” Mikey asks, picking an odd topic.

“Yeah, I had. What are you, five? You gonna ask what it’s like to kill a man too?”

Mikey grins sheepishly and plays with the pendant on Sasha’s chest. “Was it hard for you, the first time? To kill a man, I mean.”

Sasha makes a sturgeon face and shakes his head. “The first time? No. Piece of cake. It was self defence and happened so fucking fast. The guy was strangling me. I was scared shitless, pulled a knife and stabbed him until he let go, then ran like hell. The second time was harder. The third time even more so.” Sasha smirks in amusement. “But I got over it,” he adds redundantly.

Mikey chuckles. “I figured. You’re never hounded by bad conscious or ghosts?”

“No.”

“You’ve never regretted a kill?”

“Sure I have. But don’t overestimate my care for others’ well being.” Sasha shrugs and kisses Mikey’s temple unthinkingly. “There was one time… a mercy kill in Africa. My partner and I were both wounded. I found myself in a place where I had to either leave him behind, or stay with him and both of us would die. Only, if I left him, it’d take him days to die. It’d be a real fucking agony. As I saw it, his chances of making it were zero to none. So I put my gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Bucket he was called. I’d put him on my list of friends. Real friends. The fucker was a teasing little shit, but loyal to a fault. The kind of guy that kept you on your toes in downtime and had your back when you were in a tight spot. I cried like a fucking baby after offing him. If he’d done the same to me, I’d never have forgiven him. Leaving me, sure. But not killing me.”

“Why?”

“Because as long as you’re alive there’s a chance for you to remain alive. Who knows, maybe after a day or two he’d be found and helped by well meaning strangers, who just happened to be in the fucking jungle like we were. He might have lived, only having to put up with a couple of days of suffering. It’d be worth it. I’m never, _ever_ , going to let someone I love die again, if there’s a chance they might live, no matter how badly injured they are. Once you’re dead, it’s game over.”

Mikey is quiet, contemplating, drawing things on Sasha’s chest with a finger. Sasha tries to guess what he’s drawing, but fails and gives up. “You ever going to forgive me for sending you away?” he asks suddenly.

“No,” Sasha deadpans. “You try pulling a stunt like that on me again, I’ll fuck you up. Come rain or shine, you’re stuck with me. You get what I’m sayin?”

It makes Mikey smile. He raises his head to look at Sasha, supporting himself on an elbow. “Were you _really_ thinking of giving me a BJ?”

“ _No_ ,” Sasha lies.

Mikey scrutinizes him, then giggles. “Oh, my. You totally were. That’s a big deal to you, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Now can we go to sleep? I’m fucking tired,” Sasha deflects irritably.

“Mmh. Can I kiss you?” Mikey asks, grinning.

“Of course. What kind of stupid bullshit question is that?”

Mikey throws his head back in a happy laughter. “I’m just remembering something you said once.”

“That can’t be good. I say a lot of stupid shit. What did I say?”

“You said you wanted someone who’d take a swing at you when pissed, but hold no grudges once the conflict’s resolved. Pretty much like you’re acting now.”

“Our conflicts are not resolved, Mikey. Nothing’s changed except my sobriety level,” Sasha mutters and laces his fingers together with Mikey’s where his free hand is rested over Sasha’s chest. “You’re still trying to kill yourself with drugs and reckless behaviour. You’re still going to fuck whoever you want whenever you want, regardless how I feel about it, because you’re a бог брат and I’m just property. You still sent me away when I was fucking happy in twin towns with you. This is the state of things. It is what it is. Now, you’re gonna kiss me or are we going to sleep?”

Mikey’s been watching him with a soft smile. “Yeeeah,” Mikey says, dragging the word out to make it mean ‘no’. “We both know that’s not true. You’re not just property or I wouldn’t let you throw a full on bitch fit at me, nor put up with you letting yourself in here like you owned the place, going through my stuff at will.” There’s no accusation in his tone, just amusement.

“You call that a full on bitch fit? _Pfft_. I didn’t even slug you.”

Mikey sniggers and gets that mischievous glint in his eyes that means he’s switched to his flirty mode. It sends an anticipatory thrill down Sasha’s spine. Mikey leans down, puts his lips against Sasha’s ear and whispers “ _Next time_...”

It’s the words, more than the physical sensation that makes Sasha shiver and his dick to twitch. It’s a verbal permission not to pull his punches, to act out his anger. It’s―in a way―an acceptance of ownership. It also, in a roundabout way, how he might be able to forgive Mikey. If you’re punished for a transgression, it’s out of the world and you can move on. But the offender needs to admit there was a transgression made in the first place, and _accept_ the punishment for both parties to be able to forgive each other. Otherwise bitterness and resentment would just switch back and forth from party to party, and any punch thrown would just be abusing someone you claimed to care for. 

But fuck it. It’s all a problem for another day.

Sasha turns his head and captures Mikey’s lips with his own. He lets go of Mikey’s hand and grabs his hair in a firm grip, letting his tongue slip inside Mikey’s mouth to taste him, then rolls on top of him, determined to show him how a _real_ man does it, so that Mikey understands that he shouldn’t waste time with lesser guys.

* * *


	7. Turbulence

* * *

**2014**

* * *

Summer

He wakes up to a sound that somehow has become one of the best sounds in the world in a very short time span - the _skritch, skritch_ of a pencil against paper. A sound that tells him that all is well and he can go back to sleep. He would, except he’s got a headache, his mouth tastes foul, and his stomach is not a happy camper. He groans.

Mikey chuckles somewhere off to the side. “Hungover?”

“No. Fresh as a daisy,” Sasha grouses sarcastically without opening his eyes. “Of course I’m hungover.”

“I made you breakfast.”

_That_ makes him open his eyes and raise a skeptical eyebrow at Mikey, who’s sitting in a chair beside the bed, feet hitched on the edge on the bed and sketch pad in his lap.

Mikey smiles sheepishly. “Alright, alright. I had breakfast sent for,” he admits.

Sasha sniggers. “Close enough. You’ll eat with me, right?” he asks before a yawn catches him unawares. Mikey’s been putting on some weight since his return, but far from enough. He’s still borderline emaciated under all that muscle.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Sasha sits up and stretches, joints popping. His body’s aching from yesterday’s heavy drinking. “I’m too old for this shit,” he mutters and scratches his chest absentmindedly.

“Mh. Hey I’ve noticed something about you while going through my pictures of you and comparing them.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“You must have amongst the best regenerative abilities of anyone alive.”

Sasha snorts. “A uma Imortal, el Inmortal, Besmrtni, the Immortal,” he grumps. “Sure I do.” His voice is ladled with sarcasm.

“No, no. I’m serious.”

“Tell that to my knee,” Sasha mutters, but then gives in and looks at Michael. “Alright. What makes you say that?”

Michael grabs a couple of drawings lying on the nightstand and gets on the bed, scooting to sit beside him. He seems a bit excited. “Here. Look at this. This is back in 98,” he points at a picture he’s pulled out of one of his diaries, where Sasha’s sitting by the pool with his legs in the water, throwing a ball to Tyler who’s in the pool. Sasha’s only wearing a pair of ugly fucking tight black and blue swim trunks. “Look at this scar.” Mikey points at a scar going from back to front on his side along a rib. Just looking at it brings back memories of pain, and the sound of the dull knife scraping along his rib. Sasha keeps the grimace off his face. “And look at you now,” Mikey continues and drags a finger along Sasha’s side. “It’s gone.”

“I received that wound more than twenty years ago, Mikey. Scars fade.”

“Yeah, no. Not scars of that magnitude. Now look at this.” Another picture. This one from 2011, when he’s fucking Anna. “Here, and here, and here.” Mikey points on a couple of visible scars on the picture. “All gone.”

“Yeah, but you drew that picture. It’s not a photo. Maybe you got creative?”

Mikey gives him a look of pure affront. “I did _not_ get creative, okay? I look at something I like, I draw what I see. No need for embellishments. And look at this.” He takes another picture, this one from April when Mikey had sat by the bed and drew him in bed while he was reading. “You compared this picture to yourself when I was done. You _know_ it’s accurate.”

Sasha looks down on his torso to see some of the scars have gotten distinctly smaller. For some reason it scares him. He’s never considered whether his healing rate might be better than others or not. His heart starts racing.

Michael, oblivious of Sasha’s mounting distress, goes on. “And look at your skin. Any cosmetic company would go wild if they got to analyze what made you keep so well. Shit, Lexi. If you’d colour your hair and brows people would think we were the same age, thinking your crowsfeet comes from squinting at the sun. Hell, all the lines in your face could be from often made expressions.”

Sasha’s heart is racing out of control now. He’s filled with dread and can’t explain why. 

“If you didn’t keep getting hurt all the time you might be free of scars within ten or twenty years. Fuck. But maybe you did get bit by a vampire after all?” Mikey jokes with a snigger and nudges Sasha’s shoulder with his.

Sasha is moments from hyperventilating. He rolls out of bed and gets to his feet turned towards Michael. He scowls angrily and fists his hands by his sides. “There’s _nothing_ unnatural about my healing ability! I ain’t no fucking vampire! My bloodlust is a fetish, okay? Twisted maybe. The fuck do I know? But vampires got fangs and I sure as hell don’t, _you fucking get what I’m saying?_ ” He points accusingly at Mikey. “You put a full barrage of bullets in my chest I go down, and I fucking _stay_ down, okay? Game. Fucking. Over! And look at this.” He points at two scars on his hand. “I got this when I was six, and this when I was eight. This one too is from when I was eight,” he says and twists to point at a faded scar on his ass cheek. “And this was straight, okay?” He says and taps the bump on his nose where it has been broken. “I had a straight nose once, as pretty as they come! And my knee is fucked to shit. I’ve got so many pains and aches that I’ve forgotten how it felt _not_ to be in pain, you get what I’m saying?”

Mikey’s sitting in bed holding up his hands in surrender, eyebrows climbed up towards his hairline and mouth open in a surprised ‘O’, a classic _WHOA-WHAT-THE-FUCK-JUST-HAPPENED_ expression.

Sasha knows he’s reacting irrationally. He can’t help it. He’s panicking with the same defensive level as if he’d been cornered by a full swat team with itching fingers and laser sights trained on him.

Mikey slowly, carefully slides off the bed, hands still held up in surrender. “Hey…” he says softly and takes slow steps towards Sasha. “It’s okay. It’s okay, sweetheart…” He approaches Sasha as if he was a scared animal―which, fair enough, he is. 

Sasha’s lips are compressed to a thin line and his chest is heaving. He’s doing his best to rein in the panic. 

“I wasn’t suggesting you actually _are_ a vampire. There are no such thing. Relax, sweetie. No need to be defensive. Hey…” Mikey slowly puts his hands on Sasha’s arms below the shoulder and strokes his thumbs soothingly up and down. His whole demeanor is soothing, calm, patient. Very much as it was when he coaxed Sasha out of his panic attack on the ice in twin towns. This panic is different from then, more of a beast snarling and lashing out to defend itself. But just as Mikey had been grounding back then, he was grounding now. “Hey… why are you upset? Baby, talk to me.”

“ _Fuck_.” Sasha squeezes his eyes shut and rubs a hand over his face in frustration. He lowers his hand and meets Mikey’s concerned gaze. “Look, I don’t need any more of this immortal bullshit. People are already trying to kill me because they want to disprove it. The last thing I need is for them to get into their head that they can slash me and the wound will somehow magically heal up right before their eyes, you get what I’m sayin? Any of this bullshit ‘unnaturally good healing’ crap gets out, that’s what some are going to think and they will fucking make a try for seeing it.” Mikey backs up, taking him along, and makes them sit down on the bed, stroking a hand soothingly over Sasha’s back. “So what if I heal well? Maybe I just got good genes, alright?”

“Good genes?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

“Alright. You think.., if you had a kid, they would inherit your good regenerative ability?” Mikey asks, sounding tentative about it.

“Sure. Maybe. Why not? The fuck do I know? That’s how genes work, ain’t it? The fuck kinda moot question is that anyway? I ain’t gonna be nobody’s dad,” Sasha snaps irritably.

“Right, right. Just a thought. Nevermind. Hey, you want me to show you something else?” Sasha grunts and gives Mikey a look that says ‘ _What?_ ’. Mikey gets up and leaves the room, then comes back with a sketch pad. He sits down beside Sasha again and places the pad in his lap. “I did what you asked me to.”

Sasha opens the pad. It’s a good fucking distraction. It doesn’t completely shake that bad feeling of dread that had come over him. He can’t explain what came over him. The reason he’d given Mikey was rational, but a construct. He’s peeved by rumours, not frightened by them. But what meets his eyes when he opens the pad is enough to have him shove that nasty feeling far, far back into his mind.

Michael has drawn what they’d be doing if he’d come home straight away when Mikey called. Sasha flips through it slowly, relaxing more with each picture. It’s them lying on the couch watching TV, one of them cooking, one of them out drinking, another where Mikey flirts with a woman and Sasha stands off to the side watching with an amused expression. A picture of Mikey fucking the woman while Sasha jerks off in a chair beside them, watching them. It makes Sasha’s dick tingle with the first signs of arousal. It’s odd to see his own expression in the picture―focused, slackjawed, eyes glazed. Another picture, this time the girl is sandwiched between them, Sasha on top and pressing down on her to kiss Michael over her shoulder. “Fuck, Mikey. I could get off looking at these,” he states with lips quirked upward.

Michael is watching him looking at the pictures like he’s waiting for a verdict. He feels more than sees the glow of pride coming from Michael. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. No problem at all.”

The next picture makes him burst out laughing and chases away the last remnants of the bad feeling that gripped him earlier. Mikey and he are standing opposite each other, gesturing and clearly arguing. His annoyed expression says something like ‘ _Fuck sake, Mikey. Was this really necessary?_ ’, while Mikey’s sharp and lofty one says ‘ _Shut up, croat, and do as you’re told._ ’ Between them the on the floor lies the dead body of the woman on the previous pictures.

“That was real fucking unnecessary, Mikey,” he says, still laughing.

Mikey’s grin is shiteating. “I try to be realistic when I draw, okay? And don’t tell me that’s not what would have happened if I’d killed her.”

“You’re a bratty little shit. And, yeah. Spot on. She was nice. We liked her. Why’d you have to go off her for? She wasn’t even a prostitute,” Sasha jokes in agreement and winks at Mikey, playing along with the alternative timeline in Mikey’s pictures. If they’d gone out drinking and chatted up a woman, then gone and killed her after they’d fucked her, Sasha would have been more than a little annoyed.

There are other pictures that makes him laugh. One where he snatches a joint out of Mikey’s hand just as he’s about to light up. “I don’t do that,” he protests with a grin.

“Says _you_.”

“I don’t. I want to, but I don’t. Not when you’re holding it. So if you’re gonna draw me snatching it from you, you might as well draw me taking a hit on it. I want to do that too, but I don’t.”

As he goes through the pad there are two pictures that stand out to him, that if he’d had an apartment he’d want to frame them and put them on his bedroom wall. One of the two of them sleeping. Sasha’s hand buried in Michael’s hair. The other picture…

“Fuck, Mikey. This is fucking incredible. The detail on this is fucking stunning.”

The picture is drawn as if the artist had been sitting in the corner of the room. Sasha’s sitting naked in bed, the blanket only partially covering his lap. He’s cleaning guns, and gun parts lie on the blanket beside him. Michael is sitting in a chair beside the bed, like he sat today when Sasha woke up. You see Michael from the back and side, like the artist is placed to the side of him behind him. He’s sketching Sasha. What stuns Sasha about the picture is that you can see the sketch pad in Mikey’s lap and the equally detailed picture on it is of Sasha too, gun parts and all, but from the angle Mikey on the picture is seeing it. 

“I love this. This is awe inspiring. How’d you get the little picture so fucking detailed?”

Michael actually blushes, bending his head shyly, beaming with pride. “I don’t know. I just draw.”

“I wish I could keep this,” Sasha says unthinkingly.

Mikey looks up. “You can. It’s yours. I mean, if you want it,” he says, like it makes him happy.

It’s one of these times when what you want overthrows logic and wisdom. Keeping secrets is a whole lot easier in your head than if you have them on paper. But Sasha really wants the picture, so all he says is “Thank you. I appreciate it,” and leans in for a kiss.

* * *

They’re eating breakfast in the kitchen. Mikey keeps glancing at Sasha’s hand with a little smile.

“What?” Sasha asks after a while when the secret smile has made him both annoyed and curious.

“Nothing.”

“There’s something. What is it?”

“ _Nothing_. It’s just… you kept it, ‘ts all. Wasn’t sure you would.”

Sasha looks at his hand.

_Oh. The ring._

_Well. That’s a better opening than I could’ve hoped for without mentioning bitches with fangs._

“Yeah. You want to know how often I’ve taken it off since?” He asks with a lopsided smile. Mikey indulges him with a nod. Sasha sticks his finger in his mouth to lubricate it with saliva then twists the ring off to show Mikey his hand. The skin underneath is stark white in bright contrast to the rest of his tanned hand, along with a thin black and green line from the silver and bronze in the ring. “Never. This is the first time.” It feels odd not to wear it. He chuckles. “And now I feel naked,” he admits and puts it right back on. The ring shows signs of wear and tear, has scratchmarks, oxidation and patina, except on the side where Sasha keeps rubbing it with his thumb, keeping it smooth and glossy like new. “Where exactly did you get it? We should get you one too.”

“What? Like an engagement ring?” Mikey quipps with skeptical amusement, but with obvious pleasure that Sasha keeps wearing the ring.

“No, jackass. That’d imply we’d be getting married. Which we fucking ain’t.” Sasha pulls down the corner of his lips in a sturgeon face and shrugs a shoulder. “More like a, a friendship ring. For good luck.” He smirks. “Ey. I’m not the only one who might shake hand with monsters. Maybe you will too, right?”

Mikey scrutinizes him with an unreadable expression, running his tongue over his teeth. It takes a while before he answers. “I’m not sure exactly where it is. But if I was driving on the road I could probably find it.”

“So, roadtrip? I’ve got a couple of days off.”

The eager smile that split Mikey’s face is like sunshine through clouds.

* * *

Sasha’s driving, leaving Mikey in charge of the radio. Mikey has shitty music taste. He listens to billboard hits, music that’s popular right now. And people currently have shitty taste. There’s way too much _ntz, ntz, ntz_ pumping through the car radio, making them nod their heads (yes, he too nods along to the incessant beat, so sue him). Avicii wants to be woken up, Will.I.Am wants to scream and shout and let it all out, Icona Pop doesn’t care because she loves it, Drake started from the bottom, Fall out boy’s songs knows what they did in the dark, OneRepublic counts stars, Flo Rida cries. All of them to the _ntz, ntz, ntz_ rhythm. Michael mouths along to most of the songs and is in a great mood. So is Sasha. It’s a beautiful day and shitty music aside, (Seriously, what’s wrong with people today? When Ylvis wonders what the fox says Sasha just stares disbelieving at the radio while Mikey laughs his ass off at his expression) it feels great to be out on the road with Mikey by his side again.

It’s not _all_ bad music. Hunter Hayes don’t want easy―he wants crazy, and _fuck_ if Sasha can’t relate to that. And when Imagine Dragons sings about their inner demons somehow relates it to Michael and himself, loving the song from the getgo. Awolnation’s Sail makes him aggressively horny for reasons he can’t explain, and when Pink asks for a reason he thinks the song is real fucking beautiful and sings along on top of his voice to the refrain to Michael’s delighted amusement.

After a couple of hours they stop for gas, eat lunch in a diner and get going again. This time Mikey takes the wheel and the radio remains shut off. “Did you talk to Doug recently?” Sasha asks.

“Not for a couple of weeks, why?”

“We’re launching the virus globally next week. Giving the world a pandemonium scare before we release the vaccine.”

“He’s sending you abroad?”

“No. But what’s interesting and I find exciting is that we’re hitting China and Japan too.”

“No shit? He hasn’t told me that was part of the plan. Did _Otac_ really clear that? We have a treaty with the Triads and Yakuza to stay out of their business.”

“I pointed that out. He said, and I quote, this is my pet project and I can do whatever I want. He also said that it wouldn’t be breaking the treaty since none of them deal in the making of viruses and vaccines.”

Mikey emits an incredulous laugh. “Shit. My мали брат sure has balls.”

“Mhm. If this whole thing is successful we’ll be cashing in big time.”

“We will. I’m a bit pissed about that ambiguous assembly ban the government issued. It came way too early and is stupid since it only went for big sport events and concerts. Lucky we got to play the full season at least before they issued it. The sports that have seasons during summer are losing revenue big time.”

“We own any teams in those sports?”

Mikey shakes his head.

“I think the assembly ban is the reason he’s launching the virus globally already. As not to interfere with the hockey season. I think he wants the world quaking in fear and buying vaccine so it has all blown over by October and you and Luci can play.”

“That’s stupid. As much as I like to play, the _Porodica’s_ interest should always be put first. There’s more positive things than just peddling vaccine. Countries will shut their borders and the price for imported goods will skyrocket. We’ll be making a killing on smuggling alone. We’ve invested in companies that make non perishables and bottled water for when people start panicking and stock up. People will accept a lower value for their gold and diamonds when they’re selling, so by the time everything returns to normal we’ll be sitting on a new fortune. I mean, the possibilities are _endless_. We thrive on chaos and fear. What’s he _thinking_?” Michael gestures with one hand while he’s driving.

Sasha chuckles at Mikey. “You know Doug, Mikey. He’s brilliant at what he does, but he only sees his area. To him it’s just illness and cure.”

“Yeah. I gotta call him. Hand me my headset will you?”

Sasha does what he’s asked and dials Doug for him when Mikey’s got his handsfree on. He only listens with half an ear on the ensuing conversation and takes up his own phone, sending a text to Mitchell.

`Hey bro. You heard anything from that broad you chatted up last week? Tina, Trinny, or whatever her name was. You know, the one you got all excited about.`

The answer comes within a minute.

`No. I’ve asked around if anyone knew her. No news this far. ☹ But you know that building you told me about that gave you the chills? Turns out you’re not the only one who’ve felt like that. Got a few addresses if you want to check out creepy places for our halloween party.`

Then, a second later, another text.

`Man, our party will rock this year! :)`

Sasha smiles to himself. He almost wishes somebody out there is monitoring their text conversation, trying to decode it. There’s no way they’ll figure out this is a conversation about vampires and unexplainable things.

`Far out. We’ll check it out the next time I come to visit. Right now I’m my way to a store I’ve heard has some awesome halloween props. I’ll let you know if the store’s as good as I’ve been told.`

Michael’s still talking to Doug so Sasha puts his phone away and reaches back for his bag in the backseat. He digs forth his laptop and puts it in his lap, starting it up. The wifi signal is crappy, barely passable. Despite that he types ‘how do you kill a vampire’ into google. It’s possibly the most ridiculous search he’s done in his life. 

Turns out there’s a WikiHow page for it, which makes him let out a bemused chuckle. Nevertheless he opens it up. It’s designed for roleplaying gamers. He reads it anyway. It says you can ward off vampires with holy symbols like crosses. He’s got a very vague memory of Trinity wearing a small golden cross so he thinks that is bullshit. It’s just the church trying to make everything about them. He’s heard people pray to God for help enough times before he killed them to know putting your trust to some unknown higher being is a waste of time. Sure, if there’s vampires there might as well be gods. He can buy that. It’d be stupid to believe there isn’t. Now that he knows there’s at least one freakish creature in the world he’s going to work under the presumption that _everything_ is real until proven otherwise. He just doesn’t think any gods give a shit. He skims through the article. Beheading, wooden stakes, silver, garlic, holy water, sunlight. The usual stuff in movies.

He’s hard pressed to believe a wooden stake would do it when a full mag of bullets didn’t. Silver on the other hand, may be a possibility. He can’t for his life remember which metal on his ring burned the bitch, but getting a gun specifically for silver bullets might be an idea. They would kill a human at least so why not? Beheading sounds convenient. Worth a try at least. He scoffs at garlic, and sunlight you can’t take with you. 

He reads a couple of other sites too, wondering what the hell he’s doing. There’s a vampire killing for dummies article of the _for dummies_ site. Gods-and-monsters.com has a lot to say too, trying to be over-dramatic. According to them the head needs to be _torn_ off, possibly cut off with a knife. _But_ , and it’s a big ‘but’, the regeneration period of a vampire is so fast that the only way is to use a silver knife. He calls bull on that. Trinity had bled and her wounds hadn’t closed up as soon as she got them, so common sense says a swift stroke with a machete should do the trick.

All this is just stupid guessing games. The only way to find out if any if these methods actually work is to go back and check if Trinity is alive, capture her, and experiment.

He closes the laptop when Mikey hangs up. The last thing he wants is to explain why he’s reading up on how to kill a fucking vampire.

“Would you believe it? Doug hadn’t thought about it that way,” Mikey says.

“I believe it.”

“Come _on_! We’ve been planning for this for years. _He’s_ been obsessing over this project for years! I think he was a tween when he popped the idea, long before he had the knowledge and skill to carry it out.”

Sasha sniggers. “You never discussed it with him?”

Mikey looks chagrinned. “No. Apparently not. He just gave us updates about how it was going and we kind of planned around it, taking for granted that someone else would tell him of our plans.”

This time Sasha laughs out loud. “Your communication skills amongst each other is somewhat lacking.”

Mikey sighs. “I guess. But Doug hasn’t been home for years, or come to any other gathering where we’ve been more than three or four of us. He doesn’t travel very often. I doubt he’d have come to twin towns if Anna hadn’t been a point of interest for him, what with him designing the shit you gave her.”

“He’s got a lot of projects going on at the same time.”

“I know. He’s a bit reluctant to change his schedule. I hope he does.”

“Why?”

Mikey shifts uncomfortably and throws Sasha a look before going back to focusing on the road―always the conscientious driver. “To tell you the truth I’m a bit apprehensive. We’ll be playing both Free Will and the Angels…”

“Afraid you’ll be nudged down a division?”

“No. If they keep playing like they did last season there’s a real danger to it, and I don’t like it. But hockey’s just a cover profession to me, so shit happens. I don’t know how I feel about seeing Luci and Sam again.”

“You know what you should do to get Luci back?”

Mikey shakes his head.

“Seduce Sam. Court him, make him yours the way mudmonkeys does it. He offered himself once, he can be persuaded again.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“Sure I do. Luci won’t have any problem sharing with you, as long as you’re no threat to Sam and Sam’s willing. Once that’s happened Luci will be as loyal as can be to you. No more fighting between you.”

“ _You’re not making any sense!_ ”

“I’m making perfect sense. What’s it you don’t get?”

Michael makes a frustrated noise and drives to the side of the road, stopping the car, Sasha unfastening his seatbelt the moment the car comes to a stop. Michael turns towards Sasha, one hand rested on the wheel, the other on the back of Sasha’s seat. He looks utterly exasperated. “How do you think seduction works exactly, hmm? What do you think I would do with Sam if I really went for it, hm? Pass him love notes from a distance? Throw him kisses from afar?”

Sasha frowns in confusion and shakes his head.

Mikey throws his hands up in frustration, looking at the car roof as if asking for patience from above. “I don’t get you. I really don’t get you. You keep going hot and cold on me. I honestly don’t have a _clue_ where I have you! How do I please you? Hmm? Can I _please_ , **for once** , have some clear directives?! It’s like you’re fucking bipolar or something.”

It’s stupid, but Sasha can’t help himself―he _laughs_. It only serves to make Mikey look like he’s about to have an apoplectic fit. “I’m sorry, baby boy, I didn’t catch a word of that rant due to the sound of _the glass house shattering around us_!”

Mikey’s got his knife up and is popping his blade with a * _tzing_ * in a second, but Sasha’s ready for it, attacking like a cobra―one hand grabbing Mikey’s wrist, hitting it against the dashboard and squeezing hard enough for him to drop the knife, his other hand grabbing Mikey by the throat, slamming him back against the window, pinning him. The seatbelt locks at the sudden tug, preventing Mikey’s head from hitting the window too hard. The seatbelt prevents him from moving, giving Sasha a huge advantage. “Would you stop trying to murder me any time you get pissy or nervous? I thought we'd moved past that?” Mikey can’t answer of course. Sasha’s grip on his throat barely allows him to breathe, let alone talk. “How many times would you have killed me if I wasn’t a better fighter than you, Cinderella? Too many. And yet I come back to you. If you wouldn't do it to a brother, you shouldn’t do it to me.” He diminishes his grip enough to allow Mikey to talk.

“You’re not a брат,” Mikey chokes out, trying not to cough. 

“I know. But I’m a hell of a lot more than a croat to you. Don’t pretend I’m not.”

Mikey tries to pry Sasha’s fingers from his throat with his free hand. Sasha scowls and presses harder, cutting his oxygen off completely. “I’m trying to have a conversation here, Michael. _Without_ you trying to kill me. Stop fighting me and I’ll let go.”

Mikey trashes a little, realises he’ll pass out before he has a chance to do anything and goes lax.

Sasha lets up his grip enough to allow air to pass freely but doesn’t let go completely. Mikey sucks in big gulps of air and coughs.

“If I let you go, will you talk to me instead of using violence to show your displeasure?”

“Yes,” Mikey croaks.

Sasha lets go and opens the car door on his side in case he needs to do a quick getaway. Mikey coughs and unbuckles his seatbelt, rubbing his throat.

“Just fucking punch me like a normal person instead of going for a lethal weapon if you insist on PMSing on me,” Sasha grouses and reaches out to stroke a lock of hair out of Mikey’s face. It makes Mikey let out a pained laughter that triggers another coughing fit. Sasha reaches back to his bag for a water bottle and hands it to Michael, who takes it and drinks a couple of swallows. “So. What is it you don’t get? Talk to me, Mikey.”

“Yesterday you threw a guy out the window because you can’t stand another guy touching me. Today you tell me to seduce another man. Now which one is it?”

Sasha chuckles. “Oh. Yeah, I see how you’d find that confusing. Sam’s a different matter.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because he was in the picture before you and me got started. He’s already your puppy. I’ve never considered a world where you wouldn’t want him to be part of it.”

Mikey rolls his eyes. “So. Let me get this straight. Because Sam was my plaything before we… overstepped, you’re okay with me seducing him. You’re okay with him touching me? But if he’d been a later acquirement, you wouldn’t have been?”

“Pretty much.” Okay maybe it doesn't make sense. Not to him either. It’s just that he’s been incorporating Sam in his scheming for so long, and Sam is the key to getting Luci and Mikey back together again. He’s not too keen on having Sam put his hands on Mikey either, now that he thinks about it. But sacrifices has to be made for the greater picture. He can deal. “Okay, I admit. I don’t like it. But as long as I don't have to see it, and it serves to mend the split between Luci and you…” he makes a sturgeon face and shrugs a shoulder. “It’s not like you're not gonna stop fucking guys anyway, just because I don’t like it.”

“Who says I wouldn't?”

“You would?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? Probably not. You’re not around all the time.”

“Oh yeah? And whose fault is that, baby boy? I'm not the one who left _you_ remember?” Bitterness and resentment bubbles up inside of Sasha with far too little provocation. 

“It was _necessary_! Will you just get over it?!” Michael turns away to stare out of the side window, supporting an elbow against the sill and pressing a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to physically keep words from escaping. A gesture Sasha can appreciate. It’s far too easy to let mean words fly when you're angry. 

“You know what one of your problems are? That you keep pulling rank on me when we're in private and I say something you don't like. How many times have you flung ‘croat’ in my face for speaking my mind?”

“It certainly doesn't stop you from doing it,” Mikey snipes testily.

“Too fucking often it does. I have to guard my tongue around you in a way you don't have around me. You want to know why I go hot and cold around you? _That’s_ why. There’s literally nothing I can think of that you can say to me, that can make me not want to be around you anymore. But one wrong word to you, and you pull _a fucking knife._ ”

Mikey’s shoulders start to shake. It’s not until he bends his head towards his lap with eyes squeezed shut that Sasha realizes he’s laughing silently.

“You find that funny,” Sasha states dryly. “Of course you do. Why wouldn’t you?” he says exasperatedly, directing the question to no one, leaning back, sighing. “Now, unless you feel like contributing constructively to the conversation, are we done arguing? This is harshing my mellow.”

It makes Mikey laugh out loud. It’s a pained sound. “I can think of a number of things to say that’d make you fuck right off. But, sure. Let’s go with your version,” Mikey says, still sounding pained despite a grin. He takes another sip of water and clears his throat a couple of times, screwing the lid back on and putting the water away. “You always claim to be a simple man, Lex. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

Sasha shrugs. “I am what I am. It is what it is. So. We good?”

“We’re good.”

“Good.” Sasha leans down over Mikey’s lap and reaches into the footwell where the knife fell. He takes it up and hands it to Mikey, hilt first. “No stabbing, yeah?”

Mikey’s eyes spark with humour as he takes it. “I’ll try not to. It’s a backbone reaction, okay?”

Sasha sniggers and hooks his hand around Mikey’s neck, tugging their faces together. “Not okay,” he says with a smirk. “But I’ll deal.” Then he kisses Mikey, almost expecting to be shoved off. It’s not a manipulative move. He’d seen bruises start to form around Mikey’s neck and _really_ wanted to taste him. 

Mikey’s reaction is heated, pulling him closer, biting his lip, licking into his mouth, digging fingers into Sasha’s back and accidentally nicking him on the back of his neck with the knife. Sasha responds in kind, pressing Mikey towards the door, groping, putting his hands inside Mikey’s shirt to feel skin, kissing and nipping his way from Mikey’s mouth to his neck, dragging his tongue over the faintly showing bruises. He hits his head in the car roof a couple of times, his elbows keeps bumping the steering wheel, seat, and dashboard, because― _newsflash_ ―the front seat of a 2013 volkswagen passat is _not_ the ideal spot for two grown men to engage in a heated makeout/foreplay session. (For a man his size, _no_ front seat of a car is.)

“Fuck!” He leans up, away from Mikey who tugs him right back close. “Baby, I’d like to suggest we move this backseat for marginally better comfort. But it’d take one highway patrol car passing by for us to get arrested for public indecency, and frankly, it wouldn’t exactly serve us well,” he says with a grin and adjusts his hard dick, currently uncomfortably squeezed by his jeans.

Mikey chortles and grins right back at him. “Point taken,” he answers. “Let’s get going then.”

“Right.”

They make out for another ten minutes before they manage to actually get going.

* * *


	8. The Road Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mikey and Sasha finds the store. What they find is not what Sasha hoped for...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning for this chapter:**  
>  \- Graphic depiction of gore
> 
>  **Notes:**  
>  Kids, a little word of advice. Don't research human decomposition just before you go to bed. There are a frightening amount of pictures of real corpses in multiple stages of _yuk_ on the world wide web. Just sayin'. *shivers*

* * *

**2014**

* * *

Summer

“Whoa.”

The lonely store by the roadside is demolished. Half the building burnt to the ground. “You sure this is it?”

Michael nods gravely as they roll into the parking lot.

“Well fuck.” There’s really not much more to say. Sasha had hoped for answers. Looks like he won’t be getting any. He parks the car and they sit staring at the ruined building for a while in silence. “What do you say? Go in and check if there’s anything of value left?”

“Yeah sure. We’re here after all.”

By default they put gloves on before they head towards the building. The door is hanging loose on one hinge. Sasha stops to look at it before pushing it aside to enter. It has scratch marks on it, looking like something a huge bear might have caused. He’s not sure. He’s no wildlife expert. Nevertheless it makes his pulse elevate a notch. Mikey’s gone around to enter from the side of the building that has burned down. Sasha stops right inside and looks around. There’s glass splinters and debris all over the floor. The edge of the missing part of the roof is jagged and circular, whilst the other side is fairly intact except from some soot, a lot of dust, furniture and other articles lie fallen and scattered. It doesn’t look like anybody’s been here to investigate. “Looks like an explosion.”

“Yeah,” Mikey answers, standing in charred remnants. “They had books in this part. Odd that the fire didn’t spread.”

_Well double fuck._

Without anyone to ask, Sasha would gladly have settled for books. He spots a half-burned book front, takes a few steps to pick the triangular piece up and looks at it.

`nster`  
`ORE`

In a store where a shop owner talks about hunting creatures of the night and sells rings that burns vampires, that might have meant ‘Monster LORE’. 

_Triple fuck._

They wander around the store carefully, mindful of jagged broken edges and glass. There’s no electricity, but daylight filtering in from the missing wall/roof and the windows give muted light. The spooky thing is that there’s still a shitton of wares. Nobody’s stripped this carcass. Mikey’s thoughts are going the same way.

“It’s like no one’s been here. No cops, no nothing. I know it’s in the middle of nowhere, but hell. It’s right by the roadside. How many people must have passed? I mean, look at this. This is a feast of crows.” He rummages in a broken display and raises a dusty crystal on a gold chain. “I think this is real gold.”

The store, judging by the wares they can find, is a lovechild of a halloween store and a new age store. Costumes, plastic masks, fake spiders, cheap knock-off fantasy swords, quirky ghosts and witches mixed with crystals, dreamcatchers, odd herbs and unidentifiable stuff in jars. The further they come from the blasted side of the store, the less damage there is. There’s mostly dust and mould. They step out on either side of a high display case with jars in it, and stop when they see the counter. The middle of the counter is smashed as if something large had fallen on it, and the area behind it, designed for staff, is in a disarray.

“That can’t have been caused by the blast,” Mikey states. 

“No. Somebody or something fell or got thrown over it. Look at the damage.…”

Mikey chuckles. “If you say so, Detective,” he says and winks at Sasha.

“You don’t see it? Whoever landed on the counter fell from this side, and was my size or bigger. He must have caught himself and that’s why the damage is greater towards us, taking all his weight.” Sasha goes to stand beside the busted counter, angling himself sideways, bending his knees as if he’s falling on his side, stretching a hand to the side over the counter as if to brace for the landing. He follows the line of sight from his hand and his heart takes a little leap in fright. There, where his hand would have landed, are deep scratch marks on the hardwood floor, like his hand might have caused if he’d had huge fucking claws on them. There are also dark stains amongst the rubble that might have been dried blood. He’s itching to scrape it up somehow and send it to Doug for analyzing. But he ain’t no fucking CSI technician and has no idea how to go about doing it.

“Actually, that seems legit,” Mikey says with bemusement. “Then what happened?”

Sasha scoffs. “The fuck do I know? Ain’t no cop.” Mikey sniggers and Sasha looks around. “I wonder what made him fall? There’s no sign of fighting on our side of….” He spots something on their side. “He was shot at and threw himself or got hit. Look.” He points at two bullet holes on the wall to the side behind himself. “The shooter must have stood to your side behind the counter, possibly crouching. Instead of throwing himself away from the bullet he dove for the shooter.” 

He walks around the counter while Mikey is drawn by the bullet holes. Sasha’s gaze lands on a part of the counter that’s remained undamaged and he feels a surge of triumph. “Hah! We got ourselves a ring for you,” he declares and snatches a plastic bag from the wall, then reaches into the display case to grab all the rings and jewellry inside, putting it in the plastic bag. There’s a full assortment of jewellry and he figures that if his kind of ring was usable the other shit might be too. It’s a bit like reenacting some stupid video game where you collect stuff you find in case it’ll prove valuable later on.

Mikey chuckles, scraping with his knife in a bullet hole. “You’re a fucking crow. You want baubles I can buy you much prettier stuff in a real store.”

“I actually like jewelry. I’d be wearing a lot more if it wasn’t so impractical,” Sasha confesses and scoures the area behind the counter for anything else that might be of value for him. The cash register is so ancient it doesn’t run on electricity and he pushes the button that will open it.

“You wear my ring and that necklace,” Mikey points out, digs the bullet out of the wall to land in the palm of his hand, and looks at it with a bemused frown.

“Emotional attachment, baby boy,” Sasha says absentmindedly, staring down on the cash register. “Hey. It wasn’t a robbery. All the money’s still here.”

“Personal vendetta?”

“Possibly.”

“Yeah, maybe, because the dude was clearly delusional with his monster ideas. These bullets are made of silver.”

“Huh.” Sasha files that piece of information away as important. He searches the rest of the area behind the counter but finds nothing of interest to him. 

Mikey comes around and stands staring down at the scratch marks on the floor. “Was the dude wearing some Freddy Krueger contraption or is that from a bear? No. Doesn’t look like marks from a bear.”

“How’d you figure?” 

“Because bears have their five claws in a row, they don’t have thumbs.”

“Maybe the guy wanted to prank the shop owner and dressed out as one of the critters the guy believed in?”

Mikey runs his tongue over his teeth, thinking. “That’s probably it. Stupid as fuck if you ask me. You don’t go dressed as a werewolf to somebody who’s convinced they’re real and might defend himself on sight. Just as you don’t show up at a tin hatters house dressed like the men in black. Bullets are gonna fly, you feel me?”

Sasha chuckles. “I feel you. _Wow. Look at that lamb. Better slip on my wolf costume_ ,” he says sarcastically.

“Exactly.”

They share an amused look. “Let’s check out the back,” Sasha says and points at the door on the back wall. Mikey nods. The door swings open with a rusty creak and reveals a dark storeroom, barely lit by the daylight filtering in from the door.

“Why on earth is there so much rock salt?” Mikey perplexedly asks when they step inside. There are the expected shelves with boxes and crates, but the stacks upon stacks of sacks with rock salt is an anomaly. Sasha just shakes his head. His attention is drawn to the middle of the floor where a small rag carpet lies in a heap like it's been kicked aside to reveal a hatch with scratch marks by the handle.

He points to it. “I think I saw a maglite by the counter. Go see if it’s working. We’re opening that.”

Mikey obeys without question. “Dead batteries,” he calls from the other room. “I’ll go fetch flashlights in the car.”

Sasha opens a couple of boxes while he waits. Pumpkin shaped candles, plastic witches that cackle when you pull a string, nothing interesting. He finds a box with uniform costumes that are the real deal―fireman, police, state trooper, sheriff, paramedic―perfect if you’re undercover and want immediate trust. People trust the uniform more than the person inside of it. Apart from that there’s nothing of interest and he’s waiting by the hatch when Mikey comes back with two flashlights. They light them up and Sasha crouches down to pull the hatch open. It’s stuck, but comes unstuck with a hard yank, flinging it wide open. The smell of soot, rot and decay hits them in the face and Mikey gags.

“Oh, fuck. That’s vile,” Mikey says, making another gagging noise.

Sasha chuckles. “Smells like something’s dead and decomposing. Since when are you squeamish?”

“Dude, I deal with fresh death okay? This is just _nasty_. You don’t find it strange when a chef is grossed out by rotten food, do you?”

“So you’re saying you like to eat the people you’ve killed?” Sasha teases.

“ _No._ Stop. Now you’re being disgusting.”

Sasha sniggers. “You’re the one who brought cooking into this. Gotta say, food is not _my_ first thought, smelling this.”

Mikey smacks a hand over his mouth with a suffering expression, stands up, takes two strides towards a wall and promptly throws up. Sasha cackles at the hilarity of it. “Not funny,” Mikey says, drying his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “How come you’re so unaffected?”

“The places you’ve sent me, Mikey. I’ve seen it all. Genocide in Yugoslavia, famine in Africa, people frozen solid in Alaska and Russia. I’ve seen more or less every stage of death. It’s not pretty, but you get used to it.” He shines the flashlight down the hatch to see a ladder and some weird symbols painted in red on the floor at the bottom. “You coming? Or you want to wait here?”

“I’m coming, I’m coming. Let me just…”

Sasha chuckles, shakes his head, and starts to climb down, leaving Mikey to compose himself. The stench down in the room is overwhelming, and it’s pitch black except from the halo from the flashlight. It’s warm and humid. It _feels_ empty―as in devoid of life, not devoid of furniture. There’s no sounds at all. A quick survey shows no immediate threats. A table, a chair, a couple of cupboards. Weird symbols on the walls just as the big ring he’s standing in. It looks like a pentagram inside of it, with weird scribbles between the points of the star. “Looks like some satanist lair,” he calls up to Mikey and steps into the room. He searches for the source of the stench on the floor. Mikey has his gun drawn when he climbs down, keeping it rested over the hand carrying the flashlight so his aim and light is directly in his line of sight. It’s a common grip. Sasha usually does it differently, by holding the flashlight far away from his body to the side, creating a decoy. Nothing wrong with Mikey’s grip though. Mikey prefers a two handed grip on the gun, since it lends more stability and accuracy (or supporting it like now). One handed grips like Sasha often uses, may look cooler (or whatever) but has far less accurate aim. Even for him, although he’s good enough that the difference doesn’t matter.

“Oh fuck, that’s vile,” Mikey says again, making Sasha turn to look in the direction of the halo of Mikey’s light.

“Bingo.” The body’s hidden behind the table on the floor, a puddle of liquid underneath and what once was flesh is now more like meaty slush melting off the bones. Sasha makes his way over there and crouches down, careful not to step in the puddle of rot, shining his light over the body. It seems like no flies have been able to get at the carcass, and bacteria has had to deal with the decomposition. He wishes he had a chewing gum. Something to help contradict the foul smell assaulting his mouth and nose.

“How long has he been dead?”

“No clue. I’d say, more than ten days. After that your guess is as good as mine. Ain’t got no training in this. All I know is he’s passed the bloating stage and is well on his way collapsing in on himself. He still hasn't begun to dry out, but maybe that’s due to the humidity? But I’ve never come across a corpse this decayed that hasn’t been touched by animals or insects before.”

“What killed him?”

Sasha snorts in amusement and smirks to himself. He finds it funny that Mikey seem to think he’s some kind of expert. The halo from his light stops over the ribcage, _shattered_ ribcage. “Something punched through his ribcage by the heart,” he says as if it was the undisputable truth, rather than a (probably good) guess. The large hole over where the heart is supposed to be could theoretically have been caused post mortem. But if not, it would definitely have killed the guy. Too much of the corpse has dissolved for him to draw any further conclusions. In the puddle by the fingers away from Sasha there’s a box of matches, when he shines his light on them he spots a small burned pile by the edge of the halo. He shines on it just to see remnants of a few more burned books. “Looks like he was burning books when he was killed.”

“So maybe the explosion above was deliberate,” Mikey hedges.

“How so?” Sasha asks and looks in Mikey’s direction. He can’t actually see him, only the glow of his light, currently pointed at the floor.

“Someone comes here looking for some book or paper hidden in a book. Our guy shoots the fucker, hits a self-destruct panic button that’s made to set all the books on fire, flees down the basement and quickly torches the rest in case there’s more dudes coming. Only, Freddy Krueger upstairs ain’t dead. He follows our guy down here, gets pissy about not getting what he came for and _voilá_.”

“Fair enough. What kind of books did they sell here, that would warrant such safeguarding?” Sasha asks and stands up. 

“Religious crap, ghost stories, mythology, fantasy, herbology. I don't remember exactly. But in light of what we've found today, I think it's safe to say this was a front for something else, and it's more likely that they had stuff hidden in books.”

“Hm. We’ve used weirder fronts than this ourselves.”

They search the rest of the cellar without finding anything of interest. 

Back in the car Sasha sighs. “At least we got what we came for,” he says and digs up a ring from his bag of loot. The rest he puts in his duffel bag. “Gimme your right hand,” he tells Mikey. Mikey complies with an unreadable expression and Sasha puts the ring on his index finger with a self-satisfied smirk. “Look at that. Perfect fit an’ all.” He lets go of Mikey’s hand and starts the car. Mikey remains quiet, looking down on the ring as they turn onto the highway. “You wanna go grab something to eat? I'm starving.”

Mikey turns to stare at him in queasy disbelief. “Seriously? I swear, that _foul_ stench is burnt into my nostrils, and you're _hungry_?”

Sasha laughs at Mikey’s squeamishness. “Eyy. A man's gotta eat. Chew a gum or something. It’ll pass,” he says and pats Mikey on the knee. “You okay with music?”

“Sure,” Mikey answers and rummages around, trying to find a piece of chewing gum.

Sasha switches on the radio. Ylvis is still confused about what the fox says. Sasha frowns at the radio. “For fuck sake. Can’t he fucking google it? I’m sure there’s plenty of videos of foxes making sounds. I hate this song!”

Mikey sniggers, finally having found a pack of gum in the glove compartment. “But you gotta admit, it’s catchy,” he says and stuffs a gum in his mouth.

“So is the goddamn plague. Doesn’t mean it’s good,” Sasha grouses. Mikey laughs at Sasha’s grumpiness then reaches out and switches channel. Familiar notes of a song rolls out of the speakers, making Sasha smile as it triggers a memory.

... _Don't let them in, don't let them see. Be the good girl you always have to be. Conceal, don't feel, don't let them know…_

“So last week I ran into a hockey star…” Sasha says, and proceeds to tell how he ran into Thomas Rainsborough and how that led to him being taught the lyrics to _Let it Go_ , while Mikey listens and twists the ring round and round on his finger, eyes warm and happy.

* * *

They check into a motel and then walk through town to a diner. At the diner Sasha orders burgers and fries for the both of them. Mikey still looks a bit green around the edges, looking down on his food.

Sasha munches on his burger unperturbed. “What I don’t get, is why no law enforcement has investigated?” I’m sure highway patrol must have passed by loads of times.”

“Maybe the scene was coined? Let’s say Freddy Krueger was a croat. He coins the scene, the cops show up, they’re on our payroll, find the coin and turn at the door. Write some bullshit investigation report and drops the case,” Michael suggests.

Sasha stops chewing and looks at him. That particular thought isn’t very comforting. Not comforting _at all_. From now on he’s shaking hands with every Croatoan he comes into contact with. Come to think about it, if there’s monsters, the _Porodica_ and any other organised crime organisation would be a perfect hiding place for them. He holds back a shiver. “Huh. That would explain it.”

“What _I_ don’t get is why anyone would make a Freddy Krueger contraption to put on his hand,” Michael says. “It’s highly impractical. With blades as long as his must have been, on all five fingers, he renders his hand useless.”

Sasha smiles fondly at him. “I thought you liked knives,” he says and resumes eating.

“I do. But I’m not a fan of hack-and-slash. And as I said. Impractical. A wolverine design I can understand. You’d still be able to use your thumb and grasp at things. It’d look intimidating, if somewhat hard to hide in public.” 

Sasha sniggers and Mikey smiles in response.

“True. Now eat your food before it gets cold.” Sasha gestures at Mikey’s untouched fries.

“I have no appetite.”

“I don’t care. You need to put some meat on your bones.”

Mikey rolls his eyes. “Yes, _daddy_ ,” he says sarcastically.

Sasha cuffs him lightly on the side of his head, making Mikey laugh. “Oy. Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? You’re acting like it,” Mikey says with an impish grin.

“Because it makes me feel real fucking dirty about wanting your mouth around my dick, you get what I’m sayin? Now eat your food.”

Mikey throws his head back laughing, exposing his throat and drawing a couple of surreptitious glances from people around them. “Gods! You’re such a feeder. What are you going to do if I say no? Feed me by hand?”

Sasha’s on his way to make some snarky remark, but changes his mind. “Would you like me to?” He asks instead.

“What?”

Sasha pushes his own food aside in favour of leaning forward on the table and taking one of Mikey’s fries in a hand, holding it up to Mikey’s lips with a teasing lopsided smirk. “Open up, baby. Let me see those pearly whites take a bite.” Mikey’s eyes shines with bemused mirth, but he keeps his lips stubbornly pressed closed. Sasha keeps coaxing. “Come on, baby boy. Take a bite. Be good for daddy.” Mikey’s eyebrow shoot upward in surprise. Sasha lasts about a second before his face contorts with disgust and he drops the fry, leaning back. “Fuck, I can’t even joke about it. It’s sick,” he says in distaste and runs a hand over his face as if to scrub away the dirty feeling. 

Mikey doubles over laughing. “Shit. You should have seen your face, Lex! _Pure gold_ ,” he wheezes between laughter.

Sasha chuckles at Michael’s mirth and shakes his head. “I can’t help it, Mikey. I associate it with really bad things.”

“That comes across,” Mikey says grinning and unthinking takes a fry and pops it into his mouth. “But you gotta admit, you act like it sometimes. It’s always ‘Eat more, Mikey. Stock up your fridge. Drink more water. Don’t do drugs. Don’t cut yourself,’ and so on. All that’s missing is you turning away would-be suitors at the door with a shotgun. Oh, I forgot, you did that,” he says and gives Sasha a shiteating grin while his shoulders shake with silent laughter.

“Ey. I care about you. Somebody’s gotta look out for you since you don’t. You need to put on at least four kilos to be at a healthy weight again. Six preferably.”

“Fucking feeder,” Mikey mutters goodnaturedly. But he keeps eating and it doesn’t pass Sasha by.

Sasha drags his food tray back and picks up his burger again. Noting the troubled glances Mikey gets from a passing couple. “We need to get you a scarf,” he says and takes a bite.

“Why?”

“Because your neck has bruised so prettily, and I want to drag my tongue along it. It’s fucking distracting. Also, people are staring,” he says and jokingly waves his hand dismissively as if the last statement is of no importance, when in fact it is the key factor.

Mikey sniggers. “Let them stare. I don’t care what a bunch of mudmonkeys think of me,” he says and finally goes for his burger.

Sasha wants to fistpump in triumph about Mikey eating. When he first came back to Michael, he’d been convinced the younger man was beyond rescue. But with every visit Mikey seemed to have made _some_ progress. He’d gained a little weight, made fewer jokes about his own death, acted a little less broken. He was still not even close to stable. He could switch moods in a heartbeat, get that panicked or mad gleam in his eyes, be found staring intensely at nothing, switch into full paranoia. The list was endless. But there was progress. Like this time. It was the first time Sasha had swung by that he wasn’t high at his arrival. Definitely the first time there had been no new cuts. So Mikey was fighting and there was hope.

* * *

They walk back towards their motel, falling in step so well it sounds like only one set of feet trampling the ground. It’s another one of those things he files under his ‘happy place’. Just walking in companionable silence.

Such a shame he’s going to ruin it by talking then.

“So…” Sasha says, getting Mikey to look at him. “I’m gonna go ahead and jinx it now probably, but…”

“But what?”

“Since when are you so okay with me calling you pet names when we’re not fucking?” He keeps careful track of Mikey’s reaction in case he gets pissed, but the question has been nagging him today. He might have pushed the number of times he’s used endearments just because the lack of the usual outrage. Calling Mikey out on it may be pushing his luck.

The question _does_ anger Mikey. The expression of outrage flickers over his face as anticipated. But then he looks down on the pavement with a small frown, running his tongue over his teeth under closed lips, thinking. He keeps quiet for so long that Sasha’s sure he won’t answer. Sasha’s okay with that. At least there was no ‘ _croat_ ’ flung in his face.

“I don’t like that I like it, but I like it,” Mikey says at long last and side eyes Sasha.

“Fair enough.”

“My turn.”

“Your turn, what?”

“To ask a question.”

Sasha chuckles. “Fire away.”

“You don’t want me doing drugs. And yet you give me stuff from your jar of goodies when I ask for it. Why?”

“That’s real fucking simple. You’re a grownass man. You get to make your own decisions.”

“So why flush my stuff?” There’s no accusation in his question, only curiosity.

“Because if you O.D., react badly to what you get or whatever, I can tell the medics exactly what’s in your system, how much, and ensure you get the right treatment straight away. They don’t have to play guessing games.”

Mikey hums thoughtfully.

“And while we’re on the subject, if you’re gonna keep using, you’ll have to start using our own suppliers. Then we’ll know what the drugs have been cut with too. The stuff they add to it can be as dangerous as the drug itself.” Mikey’s expression is unreadable, so Sasha goes on. “I know you don’t want your brothers or _Otac_ finding out you’re using, but no one would raise an eyebrow walking into your apartment finding fucking bricks of coke or whatever. They know you like to take lower tier jobs. They’ll think it’s job related or that you keep it to offer guests. You wouldn’t be the only one who keeps a stash as treats for guests. You’re being too paranoid about it. Seeing you high will give you away, not the drugs themselves.” Sasha gestures with his hands as he talks, falling quiet as they come within hearing range of a group of people. He starts talking once they’ve passed them and are in the clear. “I recommend you make Peters your head of security. Guy’s sharp. As soon as we get home, I’ll see if he’ll consent to an interview and―“

“If he’ll _consent_? You’re giving him a choice?”

Sasha nods. “Yes. He’s not suspected for anything but being trustworthy. I know most Croatoans think I have the authority to do whatever fuck I want to―“

Mikey interrupts him again. “You _do_ have the authority to do whatever fuck you you want to with them.”

“Sure. Whatever. It’s not the point.” Actually, Sasha didn’t know that. Although, no Croatoan knew exactly what an A-lister was allowed, or how they were supposed to be treated. The божја браћа had simply created a rank and left the Croatoans to figure it out for themselves. It’s very possible that what he’s authorized to do varies between who of the божја браћа you ask. “The point is, he’s already trusted to be in your security detail. He’s been working for you for a year. He knows what you’ve been doing and kept his mouth shut about it. Very few Croatoans know how to conduct an interview with the drugs I’m using. They don’t get lessons in it like you do. We’re chosen for our individual skills and our talents, our training is not streamlined. You know that.” He gives Mikey a reproachful look and goes on. “So I’ll explain to him how it’s going to work, and give him the choice to say no. If he refuses I’ll interview him without the drugs and look for lying tells. For all we know, he could be an ex-junkie like me, or have some medical condition that would make using drugs a bad idea.” Sasha shrugs. “It’s about respect. You get what I’m sayin? If I thought he couldn’t be trusted, or suspected him of being a rogue, I wouldn’t ask, I’d just do it.”

“Alright. I’ll go with your recommendation.”

“Let him do his job, Mikey. Let him stop armed people from entering your apartment, check any shit you have delivered and whatever.” 

“The order was to let them pass. I never said to let them pass unsolicited. That was up to Mannerheim. I just… I just don’t care.”

The decision to do away with Mannerheim feels like a good choice, hearing this. “But I do. You die, I’ll set the whole fucking world on fire,” he says darkly. 

Mikey chuckles. “You sure got a flair for drama.”

“Your family taught me well,” Sasha quips and bumps Mikey’s shoulder with his.

* * *

He kisses his way down Mikey’s chest, rubbing his nose between his pecs and inhales deeply. Something has changed very recently. Or maybe he just haven’t noticed the change until now. He’s not sure. Because when Michael stepped out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist, going around their shared motel room doing nothing in particular, he’d watched and found himself getting aroused. He thinks it’s a first. (Not counting Castiel.) He can’t remember looking at Mikey without any flirting or intentional sexual teasing going on, and getting turned on. Male bodies doesn’t do it for him that way. Maybe it’s the emotional attachment and the sex that has conditioned him to react? Maybe he’s just dense. It doesn’t matter. He got turned on, got up from his bed, and wrapped his arms around Mikey, kissed his neck and whispered suggestions of what he’d like to do to him. There was nothing manipulative about it. It was what he wanted to do.

His bed is too small, but far better than the front seat of a car. _Fuck_ , but he wants to fuck Michael so badly he feels like screaming in frustration. Addi is a dead man walking. 

He bites down hard on Michael’s left pec. Not hard enough to break skin, but not far from it. Mikey gasps, presses Sasha’s head down harder on his chest as if trying to get him to cross that last boundary, all the while rutting against his belly.

“Shit, Lex. I’m such a fucking slut for you, you have no idea,” Mikey chokes out. He’s said it before. Sasha doesn’t buy it. 

He releases his grip on the pec and continues kissing downward. Mikey _has_ put on weight. Sasha wants him to put on more. He’s beautiful, but with six more kilos he’ll be fucking irresistible. Mikey’s knife scrapes lightly against his neck and shoulder blades, making it his turn to gasp. The razor sharp cold metal against his skin only serves to elevate his arousal. That’s all Michael’s doing. Since they picked up their relationship when he came back to the States the knife had been part of their games at multiple times. To Sasha, it was an acquired taste, but acquired it he had. Especially like now, when they’d had two fights within a short time span. It’s something akin to petting a wild tiger. You know it can kill you in a heartbeat, but it doesn’t, and therein lies the thrill. It adds a slight tension, a slight adrenaline rush, to the sex.

He nips at the hipbone lightly, drags his tongue along the juncture until his cheek bumps Michael’s cock, lying flat against his stomach. He lifts his head, looking at it. Normally he’d ignore it. Now he runs his nose along its smooth shaft curiously before looking at it again. It’s an average sized cock, slightly curved but mostly straight, medium girth, uncut. Sasha has no opinion on what a ‘nice’ cock should look like. It’s not ugly, not intimidating. Just a dick. It shouldn’t be a big deal. He’s kissed, licked, or nibbled on basically every other part of Mikey’s body except his dick, balls, and asshole. It can’t be that bad. Why hesitate? Mikey will probably like it. 

_No. I’ll be useless at it. Just because I’ve had it done to me a lot of times… Scratch that._ **A lot** _of time, doesn’t mean I’ll be good at it._

_I better not be good at it! I’m no goddamned cocksucker!_

But really, why hesitate? It’s just some kind of symbolic notion of giving up power. Just like doing it would symbolise sacrifice, telling Mikey he’s special. Which he is, really.

Mikey starts chortling. “Holy shit, you’re thinking about it! I thought you were joking before. The ‘will he or won’t he’ suspense is too much!”

Sasha looks up to to give Michael a miffed scowl.

Mikey is grinning in utter glee and holds his hands up, palm out. “No no. Don’t mind me. It’s just that, your face, Sweetheart. It looks like you’re trying to solve the happy ending problem for arbitrary n.” *

Except for Mikey having fun on his expense, Sasha has _no idea_ what he’s talking about. “Shut up, or I will fucking bitchslap you,” Sasha growls.

Which―to no one’s surprise―has the opposite of the desired effect.

Mikey bursts out laughing, nearly jackknifing from mirth. Sasha rolls his eyes and lets his forehead fall down to rest on Mikey’s hip with a thud, waiting for him to get over it.

Eventually Michael calms down, only shook by silent after-laughs. “Come on, Sweetheart. Do it. I want you to do it so bad. Please don’t make me beg,” he says, eyes twinkling of humour.

“What’s the point? We both know I’ll be useless.”

“No, no. It’ll be great. It’ll be great, because it’s you doing it. Please, Lexi. _Please_.”

They look at each other, Sasha contemplating, when Mikey’s shoulders starts shaking in silent mirth again.

“Hey would you stop laughing at me? I've got a frail ego alright? You’re stomping all over it!”

That sets Mikey off laughing again. Sasha gives up on even considering trying to give Mikey a blowjob. He crawls up to stand on all fours above Mikey, scowling down at him. “That’s it, asshole. No BJ for you this time,” he says and lays down at heavily as he can on Mikey, silencing him with a kiss (making him laugh even more, if somewhat muffled by Sasha’s mouth.)

Later on, they’re both drenched in sweat and Mikey’s reversed their position. He’s straddling Sasha, jerking Sasha off with deft movements and pressing the flat of the knife against Sasha’s throat. Sasha raises his chin, exposing his throat further. When he swallows he can _feel_ the edge of the blade nick his skin when his adam’s apple bobs under it. They’re both breathing harsh and raggedly. Mikey’s eyes are feverish, his cheeks red, and his expression mesmerized as he’s looking down on Sasha. 

 

Sasha can feel the orgasm building fast. He grabs onto the mattress not to jackknife (or fucking _move_!). It’d be a bad idea to accidentally slice his own throat on Mikey’s knife. Mikey’s a fucking wiz with his hands, but somehow, it’s the knife that does it. Sasha keeps his eyes on the dark bruises on Mikey’s throat until the orgasm hits him, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut. He can hear himself make a pained noise as he comes. The real surprise is that Mikey follows just one step behind. It’s fucking mental! Literally. He’d give all his fortune to know what goes on inside of Mikey’s head to make him able to get off without even touching himself. He’d give a huge part of his fortune to know what goes on inside Mikey’s head, period. 

Afterwards, when Mikey’s put away the knife, cleaned up Sasha’s stomach with a shirt, and laid down beside him on the narrow bed, Sasha’s thinking. Mikey licks the nicks on his throat and kisses him to share the taste of blood. It’s great. He’s happy and content. He muses over how it’s so much harder to make himself give Mikey a BJ, than it is to allow him to press a fucking knife against his throat. He supposes it’s not just a power thing. Maybe he’s just developed the trust kink of the century when it comes to the affectionate madman currently snuggled up half atop of him. That’s probably it. There’s probably some deep psychological bullshit going on, about reaffirming bonds of trust where it’s been broken. That would explain why the knife comes into play after they’ve been fighting too. Either way, he vows that the next time he’ll do it. He’ll make a try for his first BJ.

“What are we really doing?” Mikey asks suddenly. He rests his head on Sasha’s shoulder and plays with the hair on Sasha’s chest. He seems to be building up stress, getting nervous or unsettled. Fucking mood swings. Sasha on the other hand is riding his post-orgasmic haze, feeling happy, calm, and oddly poetic.

Sasha smiles and combs Mikey’s hair with his fingers, places a light kiss on his forehead. “We're dancing, baby boy. Can't you hear the rise and swell of the music? The dramatic falls and the light tones? We're dancing, I tell you. On broken glass, shards of metal, and embers of coal. Just hold on to me, and you won't get burned. I’ve got you safe and sound.”

The insolent fucking brat laughs at him again…

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Happy ending for arbitrary  n](http://mathworld.wolfram.com/UnsolvedProblems.html) is an unresolved math problem.


	9. Pushing the Hard Limits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha finds himself playing a mental chess game of "wants" with Mikey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not translating the two words for you. Hint: It's German and Finnish and means the same thing. I'm sure you'll figure it out even if Sasha doesn't. ^^'  
> (Also, translation for the Russian in the end notes.)

* * *

**2014**

* * *

Summer

“You like that, baby boy?” Sasha has Mikey shirtless, leaned up against the wall in Mikey’s apartment with Sasha pressed against his back. One of his hands is securely locked around Mikey’s torso, fingers twisting his nipple. The other hand is shoved down the front of Mikey’s open jeans, jerking him off with firm, slow movements while Sasha kisses his neck and nibbles his earlobe. Mikey’s hands are placed flat against the wall, fingers spread out, his back slightly arched, eyes closed and head arched back to rest against Sasha’s shoulder. Sasha wants to take him apart, then fuck him like an animal just like this. It’s one of those instances when he’s suddenly keenly aware that Michael’s a бог брат and he’s a Croatoan, and that he’s the one in control. He is bigger, stronger, the one leading this dance, and Mikey is a gasping mess in his hands. Michael, who despite his withered psyche, is one of the most powerful people on Earth. Sasha wants to bury himself inside of him and have him scream Sasha’s name in broken ecstasy.

“Yes, honey. That feels so good. Please, don’t stop, sweetheart. Come on, _Vati_ , kiss me…”

Sasha tenses up and scowls, stopping mid-motion. 

“Who's Vati?”

“You are.”

“No. That sounded like a name. Who is he?”

“It’s not a name, it's an endearment, jackass,” Mikey says in annoyed frustration and grinds his ass towards Sasha’s dick. 

Too bad Sasha isn’t as ruled by his libido as Mikey is. Right now jealousy and suspicion is holding his reins. “Oh yeah? In what language?”

Mikey hisses in frustration. “I don’t know. I can’t be expected to keep track when I’m this turned on!”

“Who is he?” Sasha persists.

Mikey twists around in his grip and falls to his knees between the wall and Sasha, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “ _Isä_ , please. Don’t do this. You’re leaving tomorrow, Lex.” He licks a stripe along Sasha’s shaft outside of his jeans. “Vati, let me be good for you, _please_ ,” he begs and mouths the coarse fabric, putting good pressure on Sasha’s dick.

Sasha might be a jealous possessive idiot, but this is pulling his triggers big time. A бог брат on his knees, begging, demeaning himself by going for Sasha’s cock _through_ his jeans. And hey! Maybe Mikey isn’t lying. Saying the wrong name when turned away with your eyes closed is one thing, saying it while looking a person in the eye is another. Now he’s used it twice, plus another word Sasha’s just as clueless about its meaning. Damned be those multilingual asshole brats! Just his luck that he’s fallen into a sexual relationship with one of the most linguistically gifted ones, while he himself had such trouble learning new languages. But fair enough. He can deal. For now. Because Mikey on his knees appeals to him. “You want to be good for me, baby boy?”

“ _Yes!_ ” Mikey’s eyes look all but feverish.

Sasha smirks and combs his fingers through Mikey’s hair. “Yeah? Then show me how good you are, baby. No hands.”

“Thank you, Isä,” Mikey says, eyes gleaming of excitement, then gets to work.

Holy shit. Whatever ‘vati’ and ‘isä’ means, it turns Mikey on using those. Sasha vows to find out what they mean later, because Mikey isn’t just doing his utmost to please him, but following commands, begging, deferring like never before. It’s melting Sasha’s brain! Mikey has always been an encouraging lover, but this is different. He’s leaving the reins to Sasha, no holds barred. The way he obeys without question _can’t_ come natural for him. He’s a good boy, indeed.

When Sasha’s lying naked on the floor, panting happily in post-coital fucking _bliss_ , Mikey’s sitting beside him, legs neatly folded underneath him, expectantly waiting. Sasha chuckles and grins at him, something in his chest too big and warm, contentment buzzing in every cell. “You ready to switch, baby boy?”

“What do you mean?”

“You ready to be my patient teacher?”

Mikey looks at him with bemused curiosity, not following.

Sasha laughs lowly, gets to his knees, grabs a hold of Mikey's wrist and pulls him over his back at the same time as he gets to his feet, hooking his other arm in the bend of Mikey’s knee.

Mikey whoops in surprise at being lifted, then laughs delightedly as he’s being carried to the bedroom. He practically howls with laughter as Sasha heaves him off his back in an arch, so he lands on his own back on the bed. Sasha grabs a hold of Mikey’s jeans and underwear, pulling them halfway down his legs with one hard tug, almost pulling Mikey off the bed in the process. Mikey keeps laughing and scoots himself up again, while Sasha a bit more carefully finally pulls Mikey’s pants off, one leg at a time. He puts his knees on the bed and motions for Mikey to scoot higher up. “Happy ending for arbitrary n was it?” He says and crawls up along with Mikey. Mikey giggles. “Hey, no laughing you hear me? I _will_ smack you. Or fucking bite.”

“No laughing. Got it,” Mikey says with a mischievous smile.

“I’m an old dog, Mikey. I can learn new tricks, but this is sensitive business, alright? I ain’t no cocksucker,” Sasha says as he lays down between Mikey’s legs. He kisses the scars on Mikey’s thighs.

“You don’t have to do this…” Mikey says.

“‘Course I don’t. I don’t have to do any of this crap. You promised as much on our road trip two years ago. But you gave to me and I give back. That’s what you do when you’re…” Sasha waves a hand in a gesture that’s somewhere between dismissive and go-on-and-fill-in-the-blank. “You get what I’m sayin?”

Mikey twists his ring on his finger absentmindedly and nods. He doesn’t look too sure though. Maybe that’s not so odd. Sasha let the sentence hang because ‘friends’ no longer applied to them and he can’t bring himself to say ‘relationship’, ‘boyfriends’, or whatever. They aren’t. No. He can’t go there yet. He’s still too angry about being dumped, to imply that Michael has any right whatsoever to dictate what he does when they’re apart. Mostly because he doesn’t believe Mikey would do him the same courtesy. Whatever they are to each other, it’s changing. He’s felt it. He felt it when Mikey got out of the shower in the motel the other day. But he doesn’t dare to trust Michael on this point. So if he doesn’t know what they are to each other, how could Mikey?

A thought strikes him. “Don’t you want me to?” Maybe that’s why he self-sabotaged by laughing the last time.

“Hell yes, I do.” Mikey says, disintegrating Sasha’s doubt. “I just don’t want you to force yourself, doing anything that will make your light fade, you’ve been burning stronger than ever.”

Sasha snorts and shakes his head. “Fair enough. No fading.” The sentence doesn't make sense. Mikey will say these things sometimes. Talking about light as if people were goddamned lamps. Nothing to get hung up about. Sasha turns his attention to Mikey’s dick. He’s a bit nervous. He’s making it harder than it should be. He strokes his cheek against it. That’s actually pleasant. The cock is velvety and smooth. He nuzzles it with his nose, sniffing. Mikey is a well groomed man, who keeps himself clean. He smells good enough. He looks up at Mikey, who’s keeping very still and watches him in suspense. “I do something wrong, or you want me to do it differently, tell me, okay? I have no idea what I’m doing.” Mikey licks his lips and nods, twisting his ring round and round. Sasha scowls. “And no hair pulling, you hear me?”

Mikey smiles, but it’s a soft thing. “I won’t.” Sasha nods, takes a deep breath and grabs the base of the hard cock lying against Mikey’s belly in front of him, bending it upwards and looking at it. He jerks it slowly twice, watching a big pearl of precome form by the slit. Mikey speaks, drawing his attention. “If you’re really doing this… I’m quite sensitive, so be careful with your teeth. Don’t bother trying to deepthroat unless you want to. For me, it’s not what does it. Just focus on the head and you’ll be fine, okay sweetheart?”

“Alright.” Mikey telling him this, is alleviating his nervousness. “Anything else?”

“If you go at it for too long your jaw will ache. Don’t bother unless you like it. Working the underside with your tongue while adding some suction feels good. I don’t know. Wing it. You’ll do fine.”

With boosted courage, Sasha nods and goes back to focus on the cock in hand again. He licks at the precome in the slit experimentally, tasting it. It tastes salty. Not bad. He swirls his tongue around the crown, then licks his lips and sinks his head down slowly, keeping his teeth away. Mikey’s breath hitches, making Sasha look up without popping off. Mikey looks like he’s having goddamned revelations. It makes something fiercely pleased unfold in his chest. He plays with the frenulum with the tip of his tongue. 

“Shit. I like that, honey.”

Further encouraged, Sasha loses his apprehension and gets into it. Mikey keeps talking. “Yes, just like that. That feels good. Careful with the teeth. _Fuck!_ Jerk me off at the same time. Perfect. Fucking perfect. Deeper. Not that hard. Oh, babe that feels so fucking good. Add some suction for me? Ooooh, that’s― _Yes!_ ”

He’s never been so grateful for Mikey’s tendency to talk during sex, as now. He’s an amateur at this, but Mikey’s constant instructions makes it easy to know when he’s doing something right or wrong. He can tell that Mikey’s dick is much more sensitive than his, and that they’ve got different preferences on how they like to get blown. But it’s all good, because he’s not all that keen on doing the things he likes to have done to him. He gets it though. Even when his jaw starts to ache, he gets why one would _like_ giving a blowjob. By the time Michael falls quiet, eyes closed, one hand buried in the comforter and the other hand resting lightly on Sasha’s head, he himself is really fucking turned on again, slowly rutting into the mattress. It’s because Mikey’s so into it, not because he’s all that into giving head. But the whimpering sounds and ragged breaths that seems to be all Mikey can get out right now are _so_ satisfying. 

Maybe he should have seen it coming―lousy fucking pun not intended―but he’s too intent on doing a good job that he doesn’t reflect on the fact that Mikey isn’t talking might be that he’s too close to the finish line.

Well he is.

Sasha sputters as he gets he first spurt of come in his mouth. “Ебать! Блядь! Иди на хуй, Мудак!” Sasha swears and turns his head away, getting two more spurts on his cheek and forehead, some landing on his nose and lip. Angry or not he milks Mikey through it with his hand before deeming it safe to turn his head and glare at Mikey. “Fuck sake, Mikey. _Warn_ a guy!”

Mikey gives him a sated smile, self-satisfied like a fucking cat. “I would, but I didn’t want to,” he answers, totally unapologetically. 

He sits up, scowling. “Disgusting. That’s what it is.” Not that it tastes bad per se. It certainly doesn’t taste good either. That’s not the point. “This fucking obsession of yours about coming on my face has to stop.” _That’s_ the real problem. Mikey’s a sneaky son of a bitch. If he gets the chance to come on Sasha’s face or in his mouth, he’ll take it. It doesn’t happen that often. Rarely enough for Sasha not to be on his guard for it, and he doesn’t like it. It makes him feel cheap and dirty.

Mikey sits up and scoots towards him, tugging himself close, still looking smug as fuck. “Mmmh. But you look so good when you let me paint you,” he purrs and rests his arms on Sasha’s shoulders.

“Then use fucking paint. Not jizz.”

Mickey just chuckles and licks a long stripe along Sasha’s cheek, cleaning come off. One time he’d cleaned it off with his finger and tried feeding Sasha with it. Sasha had threatened to bite his finger clean off. (A very goddamned serious threat to boot!) “Good idea. Next time you come home I will,” he says and resumes cleaning Sasha’s face with his tongue. While getting his face licked might not be the greatest thing, Sasha discovers that having somebody gently suckling the tip of his nose, _is_. Now that’s a thing he’ll never admit out loud, but it goes a long way to placate him. 

Until Mikey kisses him and he can feel that Mikey’s saved the jizz in his mouth and is trying to sneak-feed it do Sasha. He shoves Mikey off with a grunt. “You’re an asshole. I did good, no?” he asks, his accent coming a bit stronger than usual.

Mikey laughs. “You did great, Aleksandr. It wasn’t that bad, now was is?”

Sasha grunts noncommittally and dries his face off with a hand. No it wasn’t. And he’ll do it again. But he won’t tell Michael that right now.

Mikey reaches out and grabs Sasha’s dick, still hard despite his annoyance. “I tell you what. I want a smoke. If you prep and light my pipe for me, I’ll let you fuck my mouth as hard as you want to, until you come, or if you can’t come, for as long as you want to. How does that sound?”

Sasha’s about to say no off the bat, but stops himself. Now this, this is one of Mikey’s mind games. This is a major trade off. You can’t light the pipe without inhaling. “You got any other drugs stashed away somewhere? Don’t lie.”

“No.”

He gets a vague feeling of deja vú. Years ago it was Castiel urging him on, with a promise of lifelong partnership. Now it’s Mikey urging him on, but with a lesser drug as well as a lesser award. But still. He thinks they might be the only ones that could entice him with this and have him give in. “However hard I like?”

“Yes.”

“Hairpulling? Fucking have you choking and crying?”

Mikey’s obviously quite entertained by this. “Yes.”

Sasha reaches out to Mikey’s nightstand, where there’s a pack of cigarette, an ashtray and a lighter. He takes a cigarette from the pack, lights it, and puts the lighter back. Mikey doesn’t smoke cigarettes unless he has to, to gain someone’s trust, but he uses the tobacco to mix with drugs. Sasha’s just stalling for time while he thinks. He takes a deep drag on the cigarette and watches Mikey who’s following his movements with amusement. “You in physical pain?” He asks as he sifts the smoke out, upward.

“No?”

“No aches anywhere? How about your throat?” Sasha asks and gestures at the bruises that have started to fade.

“Nope. No aches or pains. All good.” The questions puzzles Mikey, but he doesn’t ask why Sasha’s asking.

Thing is, Sasha’s been inhaling Mikey’s hash or weed second handedly often enough to be fairly certain it wouldn’t trigger withdrawals like the heavy drug Castiel had enticed him to take. It might amp up his cravings, but he thinks he could handle it. And he’s been gagging to take a hit every time Mikey smokes.

Sasha gets out of bed and leaves the bedroom, taking another hit on the cigarette, coughing a little. He fetches the pipe, the bar of hashish Mikey has, and his jar of goodies. He goes back into the bedroom and places all three items on the nightstand while tapping ashes off his cig. He puts the cigarette in the ashtray and opens his jar of goodies, taking a pill out. He holds it up to Mikey. “You recognise this?”

Mikey frowns. “It’s a truthsayer.”

Sasha chuckles. “You call em that? Quite right though. This dosage is perfect for anyone who’s teen or up, unless they’re very small. This dosage will give quite a trip, but still lets you keep a measure of your grasp on reality. You’ll speak whatever pops up in your mind without even knowing. Double this dosage and your thoughts can no longer be controlled from the outside because you’ll be swept up in a dream world, not really aware of what goes on around you, yes?”

“Uh-huh?” Mikey says bemusedly. He knows this already. He’s had the lessons. His perplexity comes from Sasha explaining this again.

Sasha snaps the pill in half and drops one half back into his jar. He holds up the other half. “Take a half, and you won’t be as likely to say out loud whatever comes to mind. Maybe half of it, probably less. You might be aware that you’re being coerced to answer shit you don’t want to, but not likely. You’re still very likely to speak the truth.”

Mikey’s just looking at him now. Sasha gets up and takes Mikey’s knife from where it’s in his jeans’ pocket on the floor. He uses the knife to divide the the half pill in two quarters, dropping the part that turned slightly bigger into the jar. He holds up the remaining part of the pill so Mikey can see it. He smirks slyly. “If you take this, I’ll not only fix your pipe and light it. I’ll share it with you. We can shotgun if you want. Whatever you choose. But only if you take this before we light up.”

Mind games. Two can play that game.

In a way, this is the threat teachers give their students about showing up at their home at whatever hour and ask a question they’re supposed to know the answer to, if they’ve done their homework. The dosage that’s left, will give a vague pleasant buzz by itself and make a person more inclined to tell the truth, but still very much in control of their senses and words. There’s no such thing as a 100% effective truth serum, that’s why the added psychedelic drug is needed to begin with. A small dosage like this mixed with hashish makes it more potent, but it’s a bit of a joker in the game. It might do nothing except enhance the high, but it might work as if you’d taken double this amount of the pill too.

Mikey hesitates and runs his tongue over his teeth, thinking. If he has secrets, like any бог брат would have, he might be better off declining. Sasha suspects he wants to get high _with_ Sasha though, since he always offered when he lit up. It could just be a tease, since he knew about the addiction. An attempt to try to reestablish power, after giving the reins over so totally earlier. “Is there anything you want to press me for information about, Aleksandr?” he asks suspiciously.

“Not that I know of, no. But I may end up asking questions you don’t want to answer.”

Mikey is quiet for a long while before he suddenly turns chipper. “Alright. Deal. I’ll do it.”

Mikey must have some major confidence in his ability to keep his secrets in. Sasha would _not_ have risked it. “Good. Go hide this from me, and don’t give it back until tomorrow after 7 AM,” Sasha tells Mikey and holds out his jar of goodies.

Mikey snatches the jar and bounces out of bed with a “Yes, _Sir_ ,” that zings straight to Sasha’s groin. He reaches out and takes a hit on the cigarette, squishes it in the ashtray, and falls back on the bed with a content chuckle. Trying to steer Mikey may be like herding rabbits on a toddler’s tricycle, but when he went obedient like this, it melted Sasha’s mind and fuelled his desires.

Mikey comes back with an excited smile and a bottle of water. 

“Water? Good boy,” Sasha purrs and holds out the quarter of the pill to Mikey, who takes it the same way Castiel used to, closing his lips around his fingers and flicking his tongue against them. It will take a little while for it to kick in. Say, like the duration of a BJ.

“Whatever pleases you, Vati,” Mikey says with a smirk and washes the piece of the pill with water.

“Oh yeah? In that case, it would please me to have you on your knees at my feet, choking on my dick,” Sasha says with a lofty smirk and sits up. “Hop to it, baby boy.”

* * *

Thoroughly sated, he’s sitting leaned up against the wall, Mikey half sitting, half lying, leaned back towards his chest, just as they’d been the first time after Sasha’s homecoming. Only this time Sasha too is blessedly stoned. His limbs are heavy and his mind is loose and comfortably drifting. Fuck, but he’s missed this! It’s been, what? Thirty years? Since he last time he smoked hash or weed. Softcore drugs to him, by all means. Having Mikey hide his jar of goodies was a precaution so he wouldn’t get the (great!) idea to pop something that would send him hurdling straight back into full blown addiction or/and withdrawals. He fills his mouth with smoke from the pipe, nudges Mikey to get him to turn his head and open his mouth. Sasha blows the smoke into his mouth, then takes another hit for himself, putting the pipe in the ashtray while holding his breath until he has to cough.

Mikey chuckles. “Amateur.”

“Mmmh. You were just about born when I did this the last time. Cut me some slack.” Sasha kisses the side of Mikey’s face. He can’t seem to stop himself from doing that. Their eyes are both red from smoking, but Mikey’s face has red streaks from the tears that came from choking and gagging on his dick and it’s fucking beautiful. “You’re fucking beautiful,” he adds. Michael needs to know that, he thinks, in case his boy can’t see it for himself.

Mikey giggles. He’s ten times higher than Sasha, thanks to the itty bitty pill. And yet, Sasha’s the one who’s letting his mouth run. “I love watching you high,” Sasha confesses and kisses down on the green/yellowing bruises on Mikey’s neck. Those are beautiful too. His marks. And Mikey just took it.

“I thought you hated it.”

“Mh. I do that too. But that’s because you’re a бог брат. You’re supposed to be above that. You get what I’m sayin? Plus, you’re getting high for all the wrong reasons. All I see is you, trying to kill yourself. I refuse to accept you ever dying. I won’t have it. But I…” Sasha searches for words. “...I’ve been getting high vicariously through other people for decades. I like seeing it. I feel envious about it. I know it’s stupid, but I still love it. You get what I’m sayin?”

Mikey giggles again and turns his head to watch Sasha from under heavy eyelids. “Mmmh. Yeah… Yes, I think I do, actually.” He laces their fingers together and rests their joint hands over his stomach, their rings clicking together. “So, Lex. You wanted me to take the pill. Any secrets you’re planning to pump me for?”

“No. I was hoping you would spill them anyway. I can’t ask you about things, if I don’t know what you want to hide, now can I?”

Mikey smiles contentedly. “I suppose not.”

“How about a list of all the other Internal Affairs operatives?” Sasha muses. “That’d be handy.”

Mikey laughs. “Oh, I bet. There’s no list though. We’ve launched a number of IAs each. All of the A-listers are ones of course. Apart from that we only know the ones we ourselves have launched. For their safety. If any of them transfer to another брат we tell him. Not all work within close vicinity of us, but most do. You want to know who I’ve launched? I’ll write you a list tomorrow. You don’t need to use drugs to coerce me to give you that. You could've just asked,” Mikey says, looking down on their hands and rubbing his thumb against Sasha’s ring.

“Why?”

“Maybe he’ll forgive me for sending him away. Because I trust you.”

Now that’s the pill at work. A thought voiced out loud without knowing, followed by the chosen answer. It made listening to somebody under its influence weird, and hard to comprehend if you weren’t used to it. The low dosage Mikey had gotten made each voiced thought a fluke.

“You trust me, huh?” He says and sucks Mikey’s earlobe into his mouth. Mikey relaxes further and closes his eyes.

“Yeah.”

“Then you should let me fuck you.”

Mikey smiles drowsily. “Mmmh. I want to sometimes. But I can’t. You know why.”

“That’s bullshit, Michael. I want to make love to you. The only thing keeping us from doing that, is you. Addi stole something from you. From us. And you refuse to take it back.” Even under the layers of contented high, the anger simmers.

Mikey opens his eyes. “You don’t think I’ve tried?” he says, sounding almost wistful, blinking drowsily. “I have. Several times. I just ain't working. And I end up covered in my partner's blood, seeing their light leave them.”

“I get that, but have you tried with someone like me?”

Mikey twists around to get a good look at him, confused frown on his face. “What? A croat.. _oan_?” The correction between slur to title satisfies Sasha quite a bit.

Sasha chuckles. “No. Someone like Bella, Sam, me. Someone like me?”

Mikey shakes his head. “No. Just regular mudmonkeys. They’re expendable anyway.”

“Then you should give me a chance,” Sasha needles, stroking a lock of hair out of Mikey’s face.

“I told you, I can’t.”

“No. You won’t. Big difference. Like I can’t cross a frozen lake. But I trusted you to take me through it anyway, you get what I’m sayin? If you trust me, I’ll help you reclaim what was never his to take. I’ll make sure you’re safe and in control.” 

“If we fail, you’ll die.”

“We won’t,” Sasha reassures, giving their joined hands a little squeeze.

Mikey runs his tongue over his teeth, thinking. His eyes are looking somewhere far away. “You want to do it now?” His voice is nervous, even if his face is blank.

Sasha chuckles and kisses the tip of his nose. “No, my little Mikey boy. Not now. Now I just want to sit here and enjoy being stoned. Make out, talk a lot of bullshit, and just enjoy your company before we need to part again. Just think about it.”

“Can I fuck _you_?”

The question makes Sasha laugh. “No. I’m an old dog. One trick at a time, Cinderella.”

“How about rimming? Can I rim you?”

Sasha laughs again. “What is this? Kink negotiation? You mean to tell me you like licking ass?”

Mikey smiles lazily. “I don’t mind it. Though I’m trying to manipulate you,” he straight up confesses. Possibly unthinkingly, judging by the surprised frown on his face straight after he says it.

“Oh yeah? How so?”

“Because it feels fucking great to be rimmed. And if there’s ever a time when taking a cock up the ass seems like a good idea, it’s when you’re getting your ass eaten out and it’s just short of getting you there.” Mikey gives him a shiteating grin and reaches for the pipe and lighter.

“I guess that means I can’t cross your hard limits without crossing my own, baby boy,” Sasha chuckles. 

Mikey puffs at the pipe to light it and throws the lighter back to the nightstand. He inhales deeply and passes the pipe to Sasha. He holds his breath while Sasha takes a hit too. Sasha puts the pipe back, holding his own breath and revelling in that heavy, content feeling settling deeper into his bones and gut. Mikey lets the smoke sift out through his mouth, watching it snake its way upward with a secret smile. “I guess you can’t, honey. Not without finding a loophole.”

“A loophole?”

“Gotta love those loopholes, Vati,” Mikey says, looks at him, then promptly starts to giggle. Sasha giggles too. He has no idea what’s so funny. Right now, it doesn’t really matter.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Russian translation: Fuck! Bitch (damn)! Go to hell, asshole! (literally "come on dick, asshole" - but language sites tells me it's used as 'go to hell')


	10. The Snake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha's preparing to leave to go back to Doug for work, when Michael gets a very unexpected visitor that stirs up Sasha's protective side and forces him to prioritise between protecting Mikey and crossing his own mental boundaries of what he's comfortable to handle and not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DISCLAIMER:**
> 
>  
> 
> This is a possibly **trigger heavy chapter, containing non-graphical/referenced child molestation**. 
> 
> I feel it's necessary to not only warn you about it, but also tell you that **I do not condone of any of this what so ever!** I write about things that somehow touch me/jar me/horrifies me/or makes me think. Few things are as upsetting and abhorrent as sexual abuse of children. Basically, anything I write that concerns the _Porodica_ 's business are foul and horrible things that hurt people. It's the opposite of my own views on people's value. This chapter may make it real, what kind of people we're dealing with. What they do is disgusting and horrible.

* * *

**2014**

* * *

Summer

Sasha steps out of the shower, dries off and wraps a towel around his waist. He brushes his teeth and shaves. Combs his hair and stares at himself in the mirror, watching how a couple of errant locks falls forward onto his temples. He sighs in defeat, leaving them that way. He reminds himself that Mikey likes it that way. He’s got a vague hangover from yesterday’s indulgence and one hell of a craving for more. He knew it would come, that hollow feeling of suction just beneath his ribcage. He won’t know if it was worth it for quite some time, but fuck, it’d been nice. Pure _want_ is a dangerous thing to play around with. Some time away from Mikey will be good. Not only for resisting temptation to do it again straight away, or raise the bar, but to mull over the change between them. As always, these things seem to creep up on him. The resentment about being dumped has receded somewhat, the affection grown. Mikey’s behaviour towards him was changing. It meant something. He’s just not sure what to make of it yet. And damned if he’s going to be lulled into a false sense of security with Mikey again. Last time he felt content and happy he’d been discarded out of the blue. No. Mikey can’t be trusted.

He steps out of the bathroom and hears voices.

“...doing here? I didn’t know you were coming.”

“ _Otac_ called me home for a meeting. I figured I’d take the opportunity to visit some of my мала браћа. I missed you, Mikey. You’re acting as if you’re not happy to see me.”

“Of course I’m happy to see you. I missed you too. I’m surprised, that’s all.”

There’s the sound of soft kisses and Sasha’s pulse is skyrocketing in pure hatred. He knows that voice. He’d know it anywhere. 

Instead of walking to the living room he turns back into the bathroom and takes a roll of toilet paper, then goes to the guest room furthest away and steps inside. He yanks the comforter off, lies down on one pillow, takes the other and cradles it as he might if he was sleeping, and pulls the comforter back over him. He snuggles into it a bit, then sits up carefully and gets out of the bed. Satisfied enough that he’s left indentations and some smell of his aftershave, he turns towards the bookcase. He scans it, finds a book he’s read once (First Blood by David Morrell), pulls it out and opens it somewhere in the middle. He reads the page he opened it on and then puts it face down on the nightstand. He takes the toilet paper, blows his nose as silently as he can twice, goes to the desk and throws the used paper in the wastepaper basket. He pulls out the chair, lights the desk lamp, and leaves the paper roll on the desk. He goes to the window and opens it a notch, but pulls down the curtains to make it dark. All to make it look like the room’s been used. _Then_ he leaves the room again, going towards the living room where his packed bag already is. 

_Fuck. Yesterday’s clothes were left in a heap on the living room floor._

His jacket and holster lies on one of the armchairs. That’s not incriminating though. Only his clothes. He steps into the living room, seeking his clothes with his gaze, but finds them neatly folded over his bag and relaxes. Michael’s standing leaned against the backrest of the couch, the object of Sasha’s utter _hate_ standing between his legs, one arm proprietarily rested on Michael’s shoulder, the other petting Michael’s bent head. Unlike last time he saw the two brothers like this, in May three years ago, he now knows what Addi’s done to Mikey and it makes the scene look vastly different.

Sasha smiles. “Бог брат,” he says, greeting Addi and alerting the two of them to his presence. Addi turns around and quirks a smile. “Chaadayev. I was informed that you were here. Or should I call you ‘Cap’ nowadays,” he says and smirks, walking towards Sasha, extending a hand in greeting.

Sasha shakes his hand, half expecting Addi to hiss and burn when he comes in contact with the ring. He doesn’t of course. Sasha’s almost disappointed. “If that’s what you like to call me, go ahead. It’s better than the bullshit my peers keeps calling me, Sir.”

Addi chuckles. “You mean the Immortal?” It’s a wonder how he can look so much like Lucifer and be so totally different. His face is slightly longer, his hair lighter and neatly combed, greying at the temples, his mouth wider, and lips thinner. But apart from that, they’re very alike in looks. Yet Adirael’s a snake to Lucifer’s feline.

“Mhm. I’m not a fan of that moniker, Sir. Too many believe it to be true.”

“You’re not exactly trying your hardest to dispel the fairy tale.”

“The only way to do that would be dying, Sir. Tactically, that would be a less sound decision,” Sasha says dryly as Addi _finally_ lets go of his hand. He withholds the impulse to dry his hand off, and stands at ease instead, hands behind his back. 

Addi chuckles, his cold eyes going mischievous. “Indeed. That’s not what I meant.” Instead of explaining he gives Sasha a slow once over. The gaze feels like a physical caress. Sasha withdraws deep within himself, walling the most important part of him away, like he always do when he has to do something unpleasant, or have something abusive done to him.

Addi reaches out and grabs Sasha’s upper arm, stroking the ‘Croatoan’ scar with his thumb. Sasha wants to cringe away from the touch. “This is quite beautiful,” Addi remarks. 

“Fit for a general, Sir.”

Michael is remained standing leaned against the backrest of the couch, watching the exchange with a slightly bored face. He must be freaking the fuck out. He hides it well. 

Addi steps in close. “Indeed…” he says slowly and smirks, eyelids hooding his gaze. Sasha remains in place as if he’s comfortable with the intrusion. He knows intimidation when he sees it. The hand coming up to stroke along his jawline has Sasha walling himself away even further while focusing on a spot on the opposite wall. He is so far removed he barely feels the touch even though he responds to it by turning his head as directed by Addi’s fingers. It’s as if it's happening to someone else. Addi’s thumb drags along his lower lip, pushes down to inspect his teeth. Sasha keeps still and imagines what a pretty sight Addi would make, eyes wide in shock, choking on blood and trying to push his intestines back into his belly. Addi steps even closer, still stroking the Croatoan scar and pulling Sasha’s lower lip down. “How about asking Douglas to be transferred to me? I can bring you unlimited power, Chaadayev,” Addi whispers near his ear, too low for Mikey to hear. 

“I’m having trouble enough handling the limited power I currently have, бог брат. Ordinary mudmonkeys like myself, are not made to hold that much power without self destructing,” Sasha answers, voice just above a whisper. 

Addi sniggers and taps the side of his nose conspiratorially. As likely as it is, that Addi’s offer wasn’t a trap (Hah!), just as likely it is, that Sasha thinks he’s unable to handle further power. But if Addi thinks he’s dumb enough to admit that he sees himself as their equal nowadays, he’s the dumb one.

Addi tilts his head with a smirk and fixes Sasha’s hair, one of those grooming gestures the божја браћа are so frivolously bestowing on each other. “ _Otac_ approves of you…” he purrs, keeping his voice low and intimate. Sasha imagines his face so bruised and battered it’s no longer recognisable. Like when you gave Castiel free reins, and he’d just keep punching and punching, making ocular identification impossible. Addi would be a sight for sore eyes like that.

Mikey however have had enough of Addi’s pawing and whispering. “Enough already. He’s our attack dog, not our bitch in heat,” he says with annoyance. 

It satisfies Sasha something fierce to hear himself quoted by Mikey. 

Addi chuckles and steps away from Sasha. “Oh, calm your tits, Mikey. I'm just inspecting property. He’s in exceedingly good shape for a man a few months short of fifty, wouldn't you say?” he asks without taking his eyes of Sasha. 

“I wouldn’t know. I don't ogle older men that way.”

Addi frowns and turns his head towards Mikey. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Didn’t you watch the pit fight videos?”

A growl almost escapes Sasha at the mention of that. Bitterness about being sent away, flaring anew. 

“What pit fight videos?” Mikey asks, a bemused frown forming on his face. The confusion tampers down the bitterness somewhat. He shouldn’t hold Mikey responsible for what Saul had done, but he does. Mikey sent him into it. 

Addi smiles and saunters back to Mikey, kicking his legs apart to make new space for himself. Sasha stares at the back of his head, imagining how beautiful it would look with a large exit wound caused by a bullet. “Saul didn’t send them to you?” Addi asks Mikey with some glee carrying in his voice. Sasha’s fist clenches behind his back when Mikey winds his arms around Addi’s waist, locking him in place by grabbing his own wrist. When Addi gives Mikey a chaste kiss on the mouth like he’s bestowing a gift, Sasha has trouble keeping his outrage off his face. “You’re going to love this. It’s a thing of beauty. You have chromecast?” Mikey meets Sasha’s eyes over Addi’s shoulder and Sasha gets his face under control. He’s not sure if he hid his emotion fast enough, but Mikey bends his head, hiding his face.

“I do.”

“Great! I’ll set it right up,” Addi chirps with an affectionate stroke over Michael’s bent head.

“Sirs? May I go now? I need to report to Douglas in―“

“No, no, no,” Addi says with annoyance and frees himself, turning towards Sasha. “When my croats heard you were here, they acted like girls waiting for Justin Bieber to show himself. We can’t just let you stroll out of here straight away, making them think you were dismissed. I’ve spent too much time cultivating your fame amongst them to allow for that. I’m visiting Dougie next. Call him and tell him you’re escorting me. We leave tonight at 20:00.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Then get dressed and pour us some whiskey. Yourself too. You’re joining us. We’re about to watch _you_ shine, after all.” If words could slither like snakes, leaving oily resin in their wake, his words just had.

Sasha’s lips quirk in a faint smile and he bends his head slightly in deferential ‘gratitude’. “Thank you, бог брат. Much appreciated.” He imagines Addi’s eyes bulging, tongue poking out, turning blue in the face and eye whites red, struggling on the end of a hang noose. 

The good thing about this is that Doug will get some warning, and Addi’s not staying here. The bad thing is that he’ll have to sit here and watch Addi touch **HIS** baby boy, and there’s nothing he can do about it, but smile and exchange pleasantries. As tempting as it is to just rip his fucking throat out and be done with it, he can’t. To kill Addi without anyone suspecting him, he needs to be thought to be far away from him. He’s not stupid. He’s definitely not suicidal.

He quickly goes about following orders while Addi connects his phone to the chromecast, preparing to cast the videos of Sasha fighting like a fucking pitbull for survival. Saul is fucking second on his list for that alone. If they thought Sasha didn’t take offense they were dead wrong―pun fucking intended. It’s one thing risking his life by carrying out missions, and doing things that had a fucking point. It’s another thing to do it for a бог брат’s sheer amusement. Like he was some lesser creature. Oh, it _had_ a point. Propaganda. Fuck them for that. The only reason it worked, was because he _survived_. Saul had been milking the Immortal-bullshit to the max. Building him up to seem like some unattainable super human.

He grabs his bag and makes the call to Doug from ‘his’ room. He keeps it short and gets dressed. He’s very keen to keep the bag out of sight. The two drawings Mikey gave him are snug in a folder in the bottom of the bag. He doesn’t want Addi to see them, or the list of IA operatives Mikey’s launched. (Mitchell wasn’t on that list, so there was no swift confirmation of his suspicions.)

He walks silently back to the living room, peeking around the corner. The two of them are sitting in the couch, their backs to him, talking silently. Watching them now, knowing what Addi’s done, makes their dynamics seem different. Mikey may actually think he loves Addi, and still be protective of him, despite a feeling of discord. Just like Anna had clung on to Sasha even when it must have been obvious he wasn’t good for her. What he’s seeing now is an abuser and his victim, with years and years of manipulation behind them, reinforced by _Otac_. 

Addi however… Sasha no longer believes him to be capable of love, even for his brothers. The proprietary way he is with Mikey… Sasha thinks he sees the rest of his brothers like he sees mudmonkeys―tools, playthings―there for his pleasure. Only, he has to keep himself in check or his own life will be over, since _Otac_ doesn’t tolerate anything but love and unity amongst ‘his’ boys.

_They’re yours no longer, old man._

Bottom line is, he needs to break Addi’s hold on Mikey. But how? Just talking won’t do. Addi has to cross Mikey’s hard limits in a way that the feeling of wrong-bad- _NO_ outweighs the sense of loyalty. And when Addi’s done that, Sasha needs to be there to scoop Mikey up, offering him an out. Nudging him away from _Otac_ ’s teachings, back towards Luci and straight into Sasha’s arms.

_Now that’s a fucking gay thought._

_Doesn’t make it less true._

_Fair enough. It is what it is._

He steps into the room and walks to the liquor cabinet, pouring three generous tumblers of whiskey and serves the божја браћа. “You okay with me smoking, бог брат?” He asks, directing his question to Mikey, since it’s his apartment.

“I’ve told you, knock yourself out, croat,” Mikey answers dismissively. He’s curled in under Addi’s arm, back against his chest. The very image of brotherly affection. Except, the time in Angel Falls and here, since coming back, has made Sasha exceedingly good at reading Mikey’s tells. He’s sitting too still, there’s a slight tenseness around his eyes and brows. The next step will be either the mad gleam in his eyes and over-cheeriness, or that haunted paranoia. It’s no good and Mikey’s not comfortable being tucked in like this. He reflects on the fact that Mikey must probably be as good at reading him too. It is what it is.

“Thank you, Sir. I’ll go get my cigarettes.”

Addi strokes a lock of hair out of Mikey’s face. Sasha envisions forcing that hand into a bath of concentrated sodium hydroxide, lets say for 10 minutes, to hear Addi scream while his flesh dissolves. “I didn’t know you smoked, Chaadayev?” Addi says with a questioning tilt.

Sasha just grunts as an answer and goes to fetch Mikey’s ashtray, cigarettes and lighter. Yesterday he’d smoked half a cig to prepare for the much stronger cannabis smoke. Today he’s just doing it as a cover for Mikey. Not that smoking is a no-no for божја браћа, just as doing drugs isn’t for Croatoans, but by smoking now he’s taking blame for any traces of the smell of hash too. He sits down in one of the red armchairs and lights a cigarette. “What can I say, Sir. You pick up all manners of bad habits to deal with the shitload of stress you deemed fit to dump on my unsuspecting shoulders two years ago.” He takes a deep lungful of smoke, noting it dulls the craving for hash ever so slightly. 

_Ain’t that fucking perfect,_ he thinks sarcastically. It will be tempting to actually take up smoking to stave off the craving. He might. He’s not happy about it.

Addi chuckles and holds out his tumbler of whiskey for a salute. “The gratefulness just oozes right off you,” he says with sarcastic amusement as Sasha clinks their glasses together.

“Mmmh. Same pay, ten times more work, fifty times more trouble. Of course I’m grateful, Sir,” he answers and winks at Addi, sipping his whiskey.

Addi throws his head back laughing. Sasha envisions a swift stroke of a knife and lifeblood pouring out of that bared throat. “We’re still paying you the same? I didn’t know that,” Addi says and drinks from his whiskey once he’s stopped laughing. “That seems wrong. What more do you want? Name a number and it’s yours, Cap.”

Sasha takes another drag on his cigarette and shakes his head with a tight lipped smile. “No, бог брат. I want for nothing. Except for not getting recognised by too many croats I don’t know, some peace and quiet during downtime, and less responsibility. At least you’ve spared me the A-Team jokes, Sir.”

Mikey keeps quiet, sips his drink and listens, watches the interaction between Addi and Sasha.

“A-Team jokes? It didn’t even cross my mind. Damn. But Avengers are more apt. Easier to add to, and all of you can star in your own stories, not dependent on having a team. It does work too. I’m using you quite a bit to motivate my croats. The morale has been boosted. These clips we’re about to watch, they’ve all seen them. They need to know that to reach your status they need to be exceptional, multi-purpose tools. Despite your size, you are not a hammer. But as we're about to see, you could have been. In fact, you could have made a career of this.” 

“Yes, that surely would have been an equally lucrative career choice. Sir,” Sasha says with dry humour and makes sure to blow out smoke upward. (Downward would give away how pissy he is.)

Addi sniggers and mock whispers to Mikey. “Did you hear, мали брат? The croat just called me a moron.”

“He was spot on in that case. Are we going to watch or not?” Mikey grouses impatiently. 

“That was a very free interpretation of what I said, бог брат,” Sasha says. Although, he does think Addi’s a moron to suggest a career as a fighter when he is something so much better already. It’s not like he can (officially) change his career choice to begin with. 

“Perhaps. But apt. Don’t worry, you're not in trouble,” Addi assures him. 

Not that Sasha had been worried. 

Addi presses play to start casting from phone to big screen TV. The moment he sees himself on the screen he growls inwardly. Honestly, he didn't even know Saul had this recorded until Addi told them. The first match took place on the lush green grass outside of Saul’s mansion. Sasha had been taking a swim in the pool when they came and got him. He had no idea what was going on. The video starts when Sasha’s already in the ring formed by people watching, still wet and only wearing a pair of swim trunks. On the screen he looks bored and annoyed. In reality, he was feigning the blasé mood to unnerve the fucking mountain of a man he was being pitted against. The fucker was wearing clothes too. Taller than Sasha―which was saying a _lot_ ―muscled and broad like a fucking oak. Knuckles flat from persistent use and body full of scars. In short, he was being pitted against a man who not only looked intimidating, but was a seasoned fighter. Sasha had estimated that it’d take one punch from him for it to be game-fucking-over.

Sasha takes a drag from his cigarette and lets the smoke out slowly through his open mouth, dragging his tongue from side to side to shift the sides the smoke pours out from, cultivating a bored expression now, as he had then. But now he goes for nonchalant and uninterested, rather than annoyed about being disturbed from his swim. What’s interesting though, is seeing the audience. Tyler had been behind him, out of view when it happened, same as Saul. Tyler looks angry and worried, Saul is grinning like a cat with a bowl of cream. Flower is somewhere in the back, looking seriously concerned. To be fair, Sasha had been too. There were strangers there too, along with other Croatoans.

“Now this one, this one. I can’t decide if it’s the best or the worst,” Addi says with an expectant look on his face. “What do you say, Cap?”

The mountainous man on screen is screaming and flexing, trying to intimidate and frighten Sasha. (Oh, it worked. By all means. The way he moved, his muscling and ‘ body fat-padding’, he wasn’t all bark, no bite. No this was a giant sabre-toothed fucking lion roaring out its challenge. Sasha could probably beat himself tired and do no more harm but bruise the fucker a bit.)

Sasha smirks disdainfully and lifts an eyebrow at Addi in answer. Taking a sip from his whiskey.

Addi sniggers and nudges Mikey. “Pay attention now, or you’ll miss it.”

On screen they get the green light to fight and the giant goes to attack. He’s got further range and more mass. He throws a punch that Sasha ducks under (making his heart leap when it grazed his ear. Fuck. If that had hit…). Sasha uses his momentum and kicks out and down, putting as much of his weight and forward motion in landing the blow, aiming at a knee. It’s a _perfect_ hit, cracking the knee and bending it the wrong way. The giant falls sideways forward and Sasha adjusts himself, dancing to the same side, bending his knees and striking upward hand flat like a dagger while straightening out, catching the giant in the throat. The combined force of Sasha’s upward motion and the giant’s own falling weight pushes Sasha’s hand right through the throat and breaks the neck. (Along with the tip of Sasha’s middle finger and cutting up the side of his little finger.) Sasha pulls back and spins around towards Saul and Tyler, asking for permission to resume his daily exercise before the dead giant has even hit the ground.

Mikey sits up straight and howls his surprise. (Just as the crowd on screen.)

“I know, right? A man as large as Chaadayev isn’t supposed to be able to move that fast!” Addi agrees excitedly.

“Holy shit, that was beautiful, Aleksandr,” Mikey tells Sasha with an excited smile and a gleam in his eyes that tells him the sight may tickle more than just bloodlust in Mikey.

“Thank you, бог брат.” Honestly, Sasha hadn’t really realised _how_ fast he’d moved in the moment. In situations like that, time moved differently. It’s not quite true to call it slow motion. Time moves the same, it’s just that you have another clarity. Your whole adrenaline fuelled body is on high alert and the brain is registering so many small things in every little fraction of a moment, while filtering away other things you normally would be aware of. Seeing the situation happen again on screen, Sasha too can feel a ‘ _Holy Shit!_ ’. Maybe the awed looks he’d gotten afterwards was earned after all. It was all down to luck mixed with experience. All he knew was, that had that K2-huge monstrosity gotten in a single punch on him, he’d be folding like a piece of paper.

“And this is what I was talking about when I said you weren’t doing anything to dispel the Immortal bullcrap,” Addi says. “Everything from attitude to performance. It’s no wonder you’ve made a reputation for yourself.”

On screen he has his blasé mask back in place, pretending that all the blood on his hand is from the giant, and that his middle finger isn’t screaming in pain.

“To be fair, Sir. Fighting wasn’t my idea. I don’t put myself in danger unless I have to.” 

_Mostly. It would be closer to the truth to say I don’t put myself in danger unless I’ve deemed the risk worth it,_ Sasha admits to himself, thinking of all the times he’s stepped into situations to help mudmonkeys, because he could, and it wasn’t too risky.

They watch three more fights. One more one-on-one, then two two-to-one, because Saul had deemed one-on-one too easy for him. Sasha gets more and more uncomfortable as they go. Addi is as gleeful watching this as Saul had been. Mikey is as rapt in his attention, and makes comments and exclamations too. Sasha thinks Mikey may be getting off at seeing him in action. He’s chain smoking and not giving a shit. He’s not at all looking forward to seeing the last fight that almost got him, the only one where the word ‘pit’ was a true description. Mikey’s about to find out how he got the scar on his waist that he’d been caressing back and forth with a gentle finger this morning, and had drawn many times since Sasha’s return.

“Why were you doing this?” Mikey asks.

No fight took place the same day. The first time Sasha had been clueless about what was going on. Tyler had informed him afterwards when he was back in his rooms, nursing his wounded hand, making sure none of his peers found out he’d been wounded.

“Saul had problems with a couple of drug cartels trying to intrude upon our business, Sir. So he invited the leaders to negotiate, urging them to bring their best fighter, and later fighter _s_ , as part of the negotiation,” Sasha explains. Fuck but he _hates_ Saul for doing it. Apart from doing for entertainment, he made clear how expendable Sasha was. Reminding him of his place. Not that he said so. He didn’t have to. A true fighter should have been used. A pawn. But no.

Michael frowns, not looking too pleased with that answer. “And he used you? That’s fucking dumb.”

“Come on, don’t be a spoilsport like Tyler, Mikey,” Addi complains and kisses Mikey on the neck. When Mikey doesn’t bend his neck to give him better access, he nudges demandingly with his nose until Mikey complies.

“No. It’s dumb. I get that this elevates the Immortal legend, but Aleksandr _is_ mortal. And if he’d been killed like this, it would devalue the whole A-list status. How we treat him in private is one thing, but the whole idea was to make the croats think they could rise _almost_ to our level. To think they will have better protection, more perks, be talked to as if they’re _almost_ equals. We have a great supply of real hammers, and even pawns for purposes like this. This is like detonating fucking bombs when you want to watch pretty fireworks. Aleksandr is a cunning son of a bitch, who’s picked up a whole range of skills while working for us. Pit fighting is a job for someone of lesser value,” Michael argues, gesturing with a hand while Addi kisses his throat and sucks a small mark.

Sasha is working very, _very_ hard to remain outwardly unaffected. Mikey has always dismissed him, or any other croat, when he’s been alone with Addi before. Either that, or Addi had. Sasha’s allowed to remain due to his new status, but this is something Mikey isn’t comfortable with anyone outside his family seeing. Sasha’s seen Mikey cuddle with brothers loads of times. But cuddling isn’t the nature of Addi’s touch at the moment. Sasha also remembers Mikey telling him he didn’t want his brothers ‘like that’, unless he had the blood fever because then he didn’t care. ‘Didn’t care’ took a new meaning too, since he ‘didn’t care’ that Mannerheim had sent up potential assassins. It didn’t mean he suddenly was fine with it, it meant he was removed enough from himself to let it happen. It’s in every inch of his body language right now. The stiff neck Addi forced to bend, the stress around his eyes, the too still posture (even if he gestures with an arm, the rest of his body is somehow frozen. Normally when Mikey cuddles he’s loose and pliant). That Addi doesn’t react to it as out of place, means it’s a common occurrence. The reason Mikey often orders a couple of girls to be sent in when he’s alone with Addi suddenly seems like a self defensive move, to direct attention away from him. He might have managed to tell Addi off from penetrative sex when he was thirteen, but _not_ from all unwanted touch. 

The realisation that the abuse never stopped, makes hatred boil inside him, scalding hot. He wants to stab Addi until he’s too tired to go on stabbing, then douse the fucker in jet fuel and throw a lit match at him. By now he’s convinced that the disgusting creature pawing at Mikey as if he owns him, would bleed black goo rather than blood.

“You sound just like Tyler now. He said the same thing,” Addi says. “Chaadayev only went one more match before Tyle pulled the plug. Let’s watch it. It’s the only one I can't figure out how he was thinking.”

“Shoot,” Mikey agrees, not looking happy about it. 

Addi hits play on the clip. “The first part is unimportant, we can fast forward to the action.”

“If you want to figure out how I was thinking, бог брат, you must watch it all,” Sasha says and sips the last of his whiskey. 

“Oh?”

“Yes, Sir. Refill?”

Addi nods and Sasha gets up to get the bottle. He doesn’t want to watch this. Not at all. Mikey pays attention to the screen, twisting his ring around his finger over his stomach. 

On screen Sasha’s standing side by side with Saul and Tyler, opposite four men. The leader and Saul speak pleasantries. A small man stands slightly behind him, the other two are bigger, look more grizzled. As usual there’s quite an audience surrounding them.

They talk for about three minutes before they move to the pool that's been emptied for the purpose. The three men jump into the pool along with Sasha, and line up. One in front of him , one to the left and the smaller man further away to his right, edging slightly behind Sasha. The one right in front of him pulls a knife. The only reason he could still have one on his person is because Saul had allowed it.

Sasha refills their drinks. He refuses to look at the screen. He doesn’t want to see himself get that damn near fatal knife wound. 

They get the green light to fight and Addi hits pause. “Why did you go for the small guy when you're getting attacked by a knife from the front? I don't get that.”

Mikey answers. “Because he was the real leader. The guy beside Saul is just a puppet.”

“Bingo,” Sasha confirms. “He was the brain, Sir. Take him out and the cartel would succumb to an internal struggle for leadership and lose morale, easily persuaded to work for us. It was in the best interest of the _Porodica_. Sadly not in my own best interest. Although, the move took them all by surprise, or I would have bit the dust.”

“How do you know that? Saul didn’t.”

“Body language, asshole. Are you blind?” Mikey snipes. “It’s in the unspoken communication. The dummy handles his act well, except for a questioning look to small guy for confirmation. The other two are not as good at not showing their deference.”

Sasha turns his head towards the frozen screen and chuckles. He hadn’t been able to see it then, with his back turned towards the enemies, but now... “If nothing else, Sir, the look of sheer horror on their faces when I took him out, tells it all.”

“Mh,” Addi hums and hits play again. Sasha quickly looks away, remembering the pain in his side as the knife tore through skin. If the small leader hadn’t placed himself furthest away from Sasha and slightly behind, that knife would have gone deeper.

“Dumb luck,” Sasha mutters and rises to go to the bathroom. He pisses, uses a little piece of paper to dry himself off, (more effective than shaking it off), washes his hands and stares in the mirror. When fighting, he relied on stealth and surprise quite a lot. “Fair” fights such as the pit fights, when the opponents were ready for it and facing him head on, while he was unarmed, put him at a huge disadvantage. He was an accomplished fighter, by all means. That’s because he’s been around to do mistakes and live to tell the tale. But if you put one lion in an enclosure with three angry water buffaloes, the buffaloes are going to win.

Out in the living room on the screen he’d have disarmed the knife man, but was struggling to defend himself. The two men still standing was an accomplished tag team, working in perfect unison. They got in hit after hit, and all Sasha could do was deflect, getting steadily more woozy from blood loss. Dumb luck. That’s what it was. They’d emptied the pool for the fight, making a pit. It was completely dry except for one puddle. One of his opponents had slipped in it and Sasha had used the moment to attack. In the end, he was the last man standing. He’d jumped out of the pool (showing off―there _were_ other croats watching, after all. Since some were out to get him he couldn’t show any weakness.) He snagged a dark towel from a nearby sun lounger and pressed it against his wound to stem the bleeding, relying on his black tee and the dark colour of the towel to hide how much blood he was losing. Then he nodded to the божја браћа and sauntered off to his rooms. 

Safe inside he’d passed out on his bed. He’d woken up hooked up to a drip, with Tyler stroking his hair with a worried frown. Tyler had seen to that he’d gotten medical care, including a blood transfusion, all the while throwing a ‘party’ with girls in Sasha’s living room to mask that Sasha was fighting for his life. To other croats it had seemed like Tyler had celebrated the victory with Sasha, none the wiser. That two of the girls had been doctors and some of the crates carried inside had been medical equipment, remained a secret. Tyler's personal care for him had paid off both loyalty-wise and tactically, as Sasha got to repay the favour by saving the young бог брат’s life a couple of months later. Whatever. It’s all over and done with now. Tyler’s his boy too. He was before it happened, but that cemented it. _Not_ in the way Mikey’s his, of course.

Sasha waits in the bathroom until he’s sure the fight must be over, then goes back in just in time to see himself leave the screen. He sits down and takes his glass up to sip while Addi turns the TV off.

“Now that we’ve seen this,” Addi says. “Care to explain why you’re wearing matching rings?”

It’s a goddamned fortune that Addi can’t see Mikey’s eyes at the moment, as he’s sitting with his back against Addi’s chest. If he’d seen the sheer panic in them they’d be in trouble.

“I gave it to him as a good luck gift,” Sasha says unfazed, draws Addi’s full attention and relaxes into the armchair. “I’m superstitious enough to believe in such things, and my ring has brought me luck in the past, Sir.”

“Oh? And since when are you in habit of giving gifts to божја браћа?”

“Since they insist to do jobs way, _way_ below their station, and bringing me as their only backup, Sir. I will use any trick I can, to ensure you’re safe under those circumstances.”

Addi smirks and runs a finger over Michael’s ring. Sasha sips his whiskey disinterestedly. On the inside his temper roars like an enraged beast, wanting to throw himself at Addi to claw, tear, shred, punch, kick and bite him to a bloody mess. “Maybe you should give me such ring too, then,” Addi says, a challenging gleam in his eyes, eyeing Sasha’s ring.

He knows that look. Addi’s going to ask him to give up his own ring and he’s not having it. “If you dive into borderline suicide missions right by my side, Sir. I will.” Sasha gets an idea and leans forward with a grin. “But if you want a gift from me I can give you something you’ll appreciate much more than a piece of mixed metal, Sir. Just give me two hours, tops.”

Addi’s curiosity is perked. “Please, go ahead,” he says with interest in his eyes and motions permission for Sasha to leave.

Sasha pockets the pack of cigarettes and lighter, drains his whiskey, eyes flicking to Mikey to see that the panic is gone from his eyes. He’s been given a lie that’s plausible. Sasha trusts Mikey to be able to work with that. “You want me to send a couple of girls up before I go?” He asks, wanting to leave something to distract Addi from Mikey while he’s gone.

They answer at the same time.  
“No.”  
“ _Yes._ ”

“Come on, Mikey. I’ve missed you. I’m leaving tonight. Can’t we skip the girls for once?” Addi whines.

Sasha wants to cut his tongue out.

“Alright,” Mikey gives in. “No girls.”

_Fuck._

It can’t be helped. He’ll just have to work fast then. He takes his leave, trying not to think about what may take place while he’s gone. Or what he’s about to do for that matter. 

_Once Addi’s hold on Mikey is crushed, and every single one of the snakes are killed, I’ll never have to do this again ever again._

For now, he reinforces the mental block between his core being and his actions, and steps out of the apartment.

* * *

76 minutes later he knocks on the door and waits, adjusting the weight on his arm. Addi’s the one to open. When he sees what Sasha’s carrying, his eyes light up in excitement.

“This is the man I was telling you about, Joe,” Sasha tells the blonde, blue eyed boy clinging to his neck with a thumb in his mouth. “He’s going to teach you something secret, that only adults know about. But you’re a big boy, right? You can keep a secret, yeah?”

The boy nods, looking at Addi’s smiling face curiously. Joe’s a trusting child. Not very shy. 

“That’s right. You were chosen for this because you’re very special. Special enough to handle grown up’s secrets,” Sasha praises, wanting to gag on his own words. “Will you tell him how big you are, Joe?” Sasha asks.

“I'm foujj,” Joe says, pulling out his thumb out of his mouth.

“Oh my. You _are_ a big boy, indeed. Hello, Joe. You can call me Erus*. You like candy, Joe?” Addi says. * Latin: owner, master of a house, proprietor, master of a family, Lord, God

Joe nods vigorously and grins. Addi takes some caramels out of his pocket and offers Joe, who happily takes them. The scary thing is that the sliminess that Addi normally radiates is all but gone. He looks more like Lucifer now than ever, when Luci’s in his playful happy mood. Addi seems really fucking sympathetic. It’s the same act Sasha puts on when working a mark, only fucking disgusting, knowing what’s about to happen. Sasha steps inside, finally catching sight of Mikey who’s standing leaned against the backrest of the couch, face absolutely blank, watching them. His hair and clothes are a bit disarrayed and he’s spinning his ring round and round on his finger. It’s impossible to tell what goes on in his head.

This was one of those things Sasha hadn’t had the psyche to deal with, working the trafficking gig. He may have become a lot more jaded during the years, but it still nauseated him. It doesn’t matter. This is just scratching the surface of what he’d do to keep _Michael_ out of harm’s way. By all means, Mikey would possibly be triggered by watching this, as kids was one of his weaknesses (real strengths, parts of little boy Mikey―the boy with a heart too big). But it serves a purpose. Just like Doug hadn’t seen anything wrong with it until he had Bendi, Mikey probably hasn’t _seen_ Addi in action for many, many years. Seeing and knowing are two different things. Seeing Addi do this to somebody so innocent, may help tear the rift between them that Sasha needs. He can’t fucking heal Mikey if he’s still under the spell of his abuser. (Yeah, sure. He wants to make love to Mikey. But that’s not the main objective here. The main objective is to have Mikey want it too. Not just to _let_ him do it. That would be just switching one abuser for another, wouldn’t it? He wants Mikey to reclaim those parts of him that are subdued and dying within.)

When Addi holds out his hands to Joe, the little boy lets go of Sasha and reaches for him, trusting. Too trusting. Mostly, these things are not done by strangers, but by people close to a child―step parents, uncles, friends of the family, teachers, and so on. But for once ‘stranger danger’ is a valid expression.

Sasha takes his leave, and goes to hide in ‘his’ guestroom. He puts on music (not wanting to hear anything of what goes on) and takes forth his laptop. He might as well get some work done. He checks for updates on projects, calls people for reports, issues orders, make notes of new problems. Since he got his A, he never really shuts off. He also checks the service records of the Croatoans in Addi’s entourage. He’d expected them to be snakes, just like Addi. He was surprised to find they weren’t, when he met them downstairs. It was a good team. All from Australia or New Zealand. If he’s lucky he’ll get to sit with them on the flight to Doug. He really hopes so, but doubts it. God knows why, but Addi really had made a point of cultivating his fame and exalted status amongst them.

Addi orders Sasha to return Joe to where he was found one hour before they’re set to leave, lamenting his regrets about not being able to keep the boy. That’s a relief to Sasha. The boy not only gets to live, but isn’t forced to repeat offenses. He’s still far too trusting even afterwards, reaching out to be picked up by Sasha, clinging his little arms around his neck. In the car Joe admits that some of it ‘hujjt a bit’, and he ‘cjijed a little’. Sasha tells him that’s why it’s a grown up secret, since little boys have trouble handling such things. But there’s no shame in tears, and that he was very brave. Very special. Bolstered by Sasha’s praise Joe confesses that it had felt weird and wrong, even if some of the things he’d been ‘taught’ felt ‘good, but not?’, getting a bit frustrated about not having words for what he wants to say. Sasha asks him if he means it felt good in the body, but not in the head, and Joe says that’s what he meant. There’s a barrage of very adult themed questions that makes Sasha wish children didn’t trust him, or that he’d picked up a less talkative one. He answers as honestly as he can, trying to hammer home that these are things Joe can’t admit to knowing until he turns at least thirteen. He has to lie about some things of course. He can’t tell Joe that he’s been sexually molested, and that it’s not his fault. He works at convincing Joe that no wrongs has been committed to begin with, that it’s just a secret, and that the police may come and take him away for revealing adult secrets, even to his parents. When he’s about to drop Joe off not too far from his home (and the stupid parents who’d let a four year old go to the playground by himself, not to wake the new baby), he gets a hug and kiss on the cheek from the boy as a goodbye. 

Sasha hasn’t felt this dirty for years. Normally he takes great pride in being able to seem like a nice guy, when he’s amongst ‘normal’ people. But having the boy show him trust and affection even _after_ the crime was done, has his body crawling in discomfort. The urge to take something to dim it all out is screaming inside of him. He flips the lid of his jar of goodies open and close the whole drive home, smoking in the car. He makes one stop to buy something for Mikey, hoping he’ll get a chance to talk privately with him before he has to leave.

He’s in luck. When he comes home he’s informed by Peters that he’s supposed to meet Addi by the airport, and that they’re travelling by private jet. He hurries upstairs to find that the sheets have been ripped from the bed and lying on a heap in the living room. A peek inside shows that they’ve been replaced by clean ones. Mikey’s nowhere to be found at first. Then he hears him talk to someone in the bathroom. He sounds upset. Sasha stops to listen.

“I know! But what am I supposed to do about it? He’s our _brother_!.... NO! Stop! I don’t want to hear it!......... Oh my God! Can’t you two argue somewhere else and _leave me the hell alone!_ ”

Sasha goes to the bathroom, opening the door and peeking inside. Mikey’s alone in there, sitting curled in on himself by the wall, scowling at an empty spot to his side. He doesn’t notice Sasha at first. Sasha’s pulse elevates when he realises Mikey’s talking to someone only in his head, seeing things. The wall keeping his emotions in place cracks, making him want to rush in there and pull Mikey to his chest, telling him it’s going to be alright. The sheer madness in Mikey’s eyes stops him.

“Baby boy?”

Mikey’s head snaps towards him, staring at him uncomprehendingly. “Lexi? When did you die?”

Sasha shakes his head. “I’m not dead yet. Old in bed remember? You talking to ghosts?”

Mikey looks close to panic, like he’s not sure if Sasha’s really real. “You’re not here. You’re at the airport with Addi,” he challenges.

“Leaving without saying goodbye? I don’t think so.” He makes a decision and steps into the bathroom. He goes down on his knees before Michael, drops the plastic bag he’s been holding, and puts his hands on Mikey’s knees, uncaring of possible attacks. Touch has always been the key to snapping Mikey out of shit, even if there’s a chance he’ll react badly to it after today.

Michael practically sags with relief. “You’re alive.” He reaches out and tugs Sasha close, winding his arms around him and inhaling deeply by Sasha’s neck.

“Very much so, baby boy,” Sasha says with a deep chuckle, feeling something inside of him unfold with relief. His touch is still welcome, still grounding.

“He took your light with a single touch. _One touch_ , and you were gone. I almost thought he killed you at first. The boy, the boy just dimmed at his touch, and shone brighter again when you picked him up, but you went completely dark,” Mikey says, muffled by Sasha’s shoulder.

Sasha frowns. It’s a weird thought for him, but once again, if vampires exist, everything else may be true too. “Michael, can you see auras?” he asks tentatively.

“I don’t know. People hold light. Some stronger than others. Kids in particular. I don’t know what it is and I can’t explain. Just. Just. You’ve been shining brighter since your return. Brighter every time you come here. Usually you dim down when we fight, but not this week. This week you flared like a beacon, chasing away the darkness. And then Addi came and took that light with one touch.” Mikey is still curled in against his chest, seeking comfort, sounding vaguely frantic in his nonsense explanation. Maybe this is why Mikey ain’t sharing what goes on in his head. It makes no sense. But then again, maybe partially it does. If Mikey can see auras or spirits or whateverfuck. Sasha had walled ‘himself’ away when Addi touched him, protecting himself from the unwanted touch, as to not feel molested. He has no idea what darkness Mikey’s talking about. He’d really like to know, but he doesn’t have the time to find out right now.

“Am I still dark?” he asks curiously, trying to make sense of the rant.

Mikey leans back a bit to look at him, the crazed gleam in his eyes diminished. He relaxes further at seeing whatever he’s seeing. “No. Muted, but not dark.”

“Good.”

“Aleksandr, would you really have given Addi a ring if―“

Sasha scowls fiercely and interrupts Mikey. “ _Eyy!_ The fuck you think? Not even if my life depended on it. I love _you_ , not him. I can’t exactly tell him that, you get what I’m sayin?”

“You do?” Mikey asks with a hint of uncertainty.

Sasha chuckles. “I’ve said so before, haven’t I? What? You got another concussion I don’t know about?”

_Last time I said it, it meant something else._

Mikey gives him a closelipped smile and looks down in his lap. “I wasn’t sure that was real.”

“What are you? A girl, who needs to hear it all the time? No need to make a big thing out of it. Why do you think I keep coming back to you like a dumb fucking moron, letting you play spin the wheel with my emotions? I don’t fucking need that, but here I am. And not just for the fun of it, you get what I’m sayin?”

Mikey looks back up at him, eyes bright and clear again, sniggering. (Asshole. Always laughing when Sasha talks emotions.)

“Oy, I need to get going now or Adirael might have a fit for all I know―“

“Don’t worry,” Mikey interrupts. “You’re flying miles over on his good side, what with the stunt you pulled. He won’t mind a little delay.”

Sasha smiles tightly. “When you’re a Croatoan, you can’t afford taking chances like that, Mikey. But I wanted to give you something before I go, okay?” He picks up the little plastic bag he dropped when he sat down and takes out its content.

“Markers?”

Sasha opens the pack of red, green, blue, and black markers and takes out the red one. He grabs Mikey's wrist and pulls up the sleeve. “Yes. Anytime you feel the need to cut, you take one of these fuckers and…” he bites the cork and pulls the pen out of it, still holding Mikey's wrist, and draws a stripe on the back of Mikey’s forearm. “Juscht dwaw anythhin on youjj schkin,” he says, the cork in his mouth distorting his speech. He lets go of Michael’s wrist and puts the cork back on, putting the marker back in the pack. “If that ain't workin, take your sketchbook and draw yourself cutting yourself. Lots of red for the blood or whatever. Draw your demons. Vent art it’s called, yeah? If that ain’t workin, have Peters get some poor loser who’ve crossed us up here and bring out your carving tools, okay? Or call me. If I can’t take the call, I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Only if none of that shit works, then you can go for drugs or cutting yourself. And make sure it’s good stuff, from us, if you go for drugs. Can you do this for me?”

Michael is running a finger over the stripe Sasha drew with a weird smile. “Is this the best you can draw?” he teases.

_Great. He’s deflecting._

Sasha gives him a dark look, grabs a marker without looking (blue), uncorks it, grabs Mikey’s wrist and tugs his arm closer. On the inside of the forearm he writes _Lexi_ , draws a motherfucking heart ❤ underneath, then writes _Mikey_ under the heart. To top it off he draws an arrow going in at the bottom side of the heart, coming out at the top. He caps the marker and puts it back. “There. Because apparently we’re fucking seven,” he says and cuffs Michael on the head.

Mikey scowls at him for the cuff, looks down at what he’d done on his arm, and bursts out laughing.

Sasha grunts and rolls his eyes. “Why do I even bother?” He mutters and gets to his feet. “Just call me, okay? I don’t care what time it is. If I can answer, I will.”

Mikey’s still giggling, looking up at him with gleeful mischief.

“Michael, tell me this. Am I misreading what’s going on between us?” Sasha asks with mounting annoyance. It’s not like he thinks Mikey has started to feel the same way about him as he does about Michael. But he’s sure Mikey has very strong feelings towards him. The stakes are too high for Mikey to put them to risk this way otherwise. But the fuck does he know? Maybe he’s overestimating his own importance to Mikey.

Mikey gets to his feet, grabs him by the collar and pulls him in for a kiss. “I don’t think so, Lexi. Now get going before I keep you here and ruin it all,” he says and steals another kiss.

“But you take care, alright?” Sasha asks, capturing Mikey’s hand, lifting it and pressing their palms and fingers flat against each other so their rings click together. It’s really fucking important to him that Mikey wears it. (And that Addi didn’t steal it.)

“You know it,” Mikey answers with sarcastic humour.

Sasha almost asks him to at least pretend, so he doesn’t have to worry. He stops himself before the words are out. He’d rather Mikey be honest with him, than hide like he does to everybody else. “Fair enough,” he says instead and kisses Mikey on the forehead. This is is the pit of vipers he wishes he hadn’t jumped into. Complicated, full of pitfalls, undefined.

Feelings. He’s got them.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is Mikey POV.


	11. Me, Myself, and My Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's used to getting unexpected visits from his brothers. Kind of. Mostly it keeps loneliness at bay. So it's more welcome than he cares to admit. But this is different. Having Addi show up at his doorstep while Lex is in the shower is _not_ a welcome surprise. But he loves his brother. He _does_. Now if everybody could just _shut up_ and leave him be! (Michael POV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Notes:**  
>  This chapter is less graphic than the last chapter, even if it's the same events taking place. Michael has gotten progressively worse since Sasha left twin towns, and the events taking place are triggering to him. His brain has it covered. *cough, cough* If you're looking for a clean cut diagnosis for him, you can stop. I read up on a bunch of diagnoses and just mixed as I seemed fit. This chapter will hopefully help you understand why Mikey sometimes acts irrationally. Also, we get to see some of what Sasha is up against, trying to cure. I don't think Mikey _can_ be completely healed. Or even that he wants to be. But he can get better, if only given enough time.
> 
> The chapter is written rather confusingly I think. It's on purpose to help further the feeling of confusion Mikey feels. Feel free to ask questions after you've read.
> 
> And as always, a MAJOR thank you to my Beta Mizz_kitty21 for her invaluable input. :) <3

* * *

**2014**

* * *

Summer

The moment the light goes out of Lexi, he almost panics. The darkness descends, crawling, rippling at the edge of his vision, sucking colour out of everything in a blink of an eye, like an old photograph fading in the sun.

_I love my brother._

_I love my brother._

_I love my brother._

Lexi’s talking. He’s alive. Addi just ate his light.

_The literal light in my life._

Lexi’s light keeps the darkness at bay, mutes the voices. Lex doesn’t block things out completely―not anymore―but makes reality easier to discern. Or what he thought was real anyway. He wasn’t sure. But things were easier with Lex shining for him. Now Addi snuffed that light and let the nightmares in.

_What if it never comes back?_

Leo’s suddenly curled in the couch behind him watching Addi and Aleksandr silently, no longer kept away by Lexi’s presence. Mal comes running from the kitchen. He’s not quiet. He’s shouting at Addi. “Stop touching him! Get your hands off him. Stop it!” Mal looks at him. “Mikey, he’s touching your carving. Make him stop! Make him _stop_!”

_Why? You hate Lex._

“No I don’t. Just put a stop to this!”

Mal’s upset baffles him. It doesn’t correspond with what he usually has to say about Lexi. Mal’s never scared away by Lexi’s light like Leo is. He tags along. Comments. Not always, but too often.

Addi steps closer to Lexi, caresses his face, pushing it this way and that, looking at it from different angles. Lexi goes with it, obedient. He’s so dark and empty now he seems to suck light from his surrounding.

_I love my brother._  
_I love my brother._  
_I love my brother._

Mal’s outraged at his inaction, makes a frustrated noise and turns back to Addi, trying to physically pull him away, grabbing his arm. When that doesn’t work he tries to push him instead, to no avail. It’s hard to tell if Mal is real or if Addi is. It’s anyone's guess. 

Addi’s whispering, touching Lexi’s soft lower lip, pulling it down to look at those white teeth that’s left beautiful marks on his body just this morning. If he touches them they ache sweetly.

“ _NOOO_! Let go of him! Stop! Addi, stop it, you disgusting _freak_!” Mal’s hitting Addi’s back, hammering at it frantically.

_I love my brother. I love my brother.I love my brother.I love my brother.I love my brother._

“Stop touching him! **STOP TOUCHING HIM!** ” Mal squeezes himself between Addi and Lexi. They’re so close he has to sink into Lex to fit. He bares his teeth and scowls fiercely, trying to push at Addi’s unbudging chest.

He gets a sense of vertigo at the sight. His brain won’t really comprehend the superimposed images and the world tilts precariously. That’s one of the things that’s been getting worse.

_I love my brother._  
_I love my brother._  
_I love my brother._  
_I love my brother._  
_I love my brother._  
_I love my brother._

“Don’t touch him! Don’t touch him! Don’t touch him! Don’t touch him!” Mal chants frantically.

_Don’t touch him!Don’t touch him!Don’t touch him!Don’t touch him!_

“Enough already. He’s our attack dog, not our bitch in heat,” he says with annoyance, making Addi _finally_ take a step away from Lexi, chuckling. Mal places himself protectively between Addi and Lex, throwing him a grateful look for speaking up. It’s jarring. There’s nothing transparent about Mal, yet he can see both Mal and Lex perfectly.

“Oh, calm your tits, Mikey. I'm just inspecting property. He’s in exceedingly good shape for a man a few months short of fifty, wouldn't you say?” Addi asks without taking his eyes of Lexi. 

“I wouldn’t know. I don't ogle older men that way,” he replies testily. 

_I can’t stop watching him. He’s perfect. Rugged grace, sweet and caring, soft, yet the most fearsome of warriors. Every strand of hair, every cell, perfection. Stealing my breath and giving me shivers that has nothing to do with fear or cold._

Addi frowns and turns his head towards him. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Didn’t you watch the pit fight videos?” For a beat Lexi radiates anger at what Addi just said, it’s quickly tampered down. 

“What pit fight videos?” he asks.

_I’ve never heard of any pit fight videos containing Lex. Why would he put himself in such needless danger? I might lose him if he does._

_I already lost him. He came back. He came back for me. Unbidden._

“Yeah… you can’t get rid of that thing, can you?” Leo says disgustedly from the couch.

“Shut up. Don’t speak of him that way!” Mal says angrily towards Leo.

It’s hard not to look back and forth between them when they argue. Usually they don’t appear at the same time. But when they did, they argued like cats in a fucking bag.

“It’s better if Addi pays attention to the bloody croat, Mal. At least then, he stays away from Mikey,” Leo argues.

“No. He should stay away from both of them.” Mal looks at him. “Throw him out, Mikey. Get rid of him. Get him away from us!”

Leo looks at him too. “Yes. Get him away from us,” he agrees.

_I can’t._

_I love my brother._

“No we don’t,” Mal and Leo says with one voice.

_Shut up._

Addi smiles and saunters back to him, kicking his legs apart to make new space for himself. Lexi stares at the back of Addi’s head, face absolutely unreadable. “Saul didn’t send them to you?” Addi asks with an excited smile. He winds his arms around Addi’s waist, locking him in place by grabbing his own wrist, preventing him from going back to Lex. Addi gives him a chaste kiss on the mouth. “You’re going to love this. It’s a thing of beauty. You have chromecast?” 

He meets Lexi’s eyes over Addi’s shoulder. Even without the light the disgusted anger is plain to see for a beat before his face goes unreadable again. He bends his own head to hide his face for Lexi. “I do.”

_Are you jealous, Lex?_

“No. He’s angry you stole Addi’s attention like envious mongrel he is,” Leo answers. “He wants Addi to himself so he can use him for power. He doesn’t give a shit about you. You’re nothing to him.”

“Don’t listen to Leo. He’s being protective of what he considers his. You’re a possession to him, but he needs you. He wants to protect you,” Mal counters, a bit more in line with his usual stance about Lexi. 

“Great! I’ll set it right up,” Addi chirps with an affectionate stroke over his bent head. Leo hisses at Addi from the couch, curling in tighter on himself, hugging his knees to his chest. It’s the first time any of them has been present in Addi’s company. Usually it was only the voices, whispering what a bad мали брат he is for denying Addi what he wants by saying no to some things. Pleading with him to give in. Laughing at him for cringing from Addi’s particular brand of showing love. Mocking him. Frightening him. 

Lexi whispers to him too, in the quiet of nights. Promises of a future where he's free of the darkness and the chains of duty. He tells fairy tales of a better world. A world where Luci is back by his side and they're left to themselves. The soft rumble of his voice in quiet moments is the sound of hope where there once was none.

“Treason,” Leo says bitterly. “ That’s what he’s talking about. He’s talking about treason. You should kill him. Kill him. He’s poison, Mikey!”

“More like a drug,” Mal counters. Lexi has left the room. Addi’s setting up to cast from his phone and Mal’s trailing after him, eying him suspiciously, blocking all the hidden wall compartments from view or standing on top of those on the floor. Not that it would help much. Lex had found several of them. “He’s chaos, Leo. Let them play. He'll liven things up. I'm just waiting for him to find out about Srebro. You and Doug will be in so much trouble! It’s going to be fun to watch.”

_Seb has been adopted. He'll never find out._

“Won't he?” Mal asks with malicious sceptical amusement. “Who says he doesn’t already know? Biding his time.”

He sits down on the couch beside Leo, careful not to touch him lest Leo either pop out of existence or superimpose in that way that causes vertigo. Addi comes around the couch and sits down beside him, straight on top of Leo. Leo shrieks and dives onto the floor, rolling away under the table and gets to his legs on the other side showing his teeth, stark white in his black face. Leo edges around the table and crouches down behind the opposite armrest of the couch until only the top of his head and watchful eyes stick up, peering suspiciously at Addi like an animal.

Addi tugs him close and tries to kiss him _that_ way. He averts his head and puts his back against Addi’s chest instead, burrow in under Addi’s arm. “Don’t. The croat will be back any minute.”

“Oh come now, Mikey. Don’t be like that. The croat won’t talk. He’s trusted. More so than ever. I’ve missed you. It’s lonely on my island,” Addi coos, burrowing his nose in his hair.

“I think Australia counts as a little more than an island, Addi,” he counters and lifts his legs up on the couch. “Besides, you’ve got a wife to cuddle with.”

Addi makes a disgusted noise. “Fucking mudmonkeys. She’s the worst. I don’t know how I angered _Otac_ to make him force me to marry her.” One of Addi’s hands strays, going under the shirt hem to touch skin. Mal scowls, Leo hisses, and he bats the hand away. “I need some real lovin’, Mikey. The kind reserved only for us.”

He looks down on his lap, his skin crawls where Addi touched it. A couple of fat white maggots fall out from under the hem. He looks away, hoping Lex will appear again soon.

_I love my brother._  
_I love my brother._

“No we don’t. Don’t let him touch us like that,” Mal says determinedly, standing with his arms crossed in front of the TV.

“I love you, Addi. I just don’t feel like doing anything like that, okay?”

_Always the same discussion. I hate this._

_I still miss him._

_Not true. I miss who we are when we’re together with our other_ браћа _, and he doesn’t try for things that makes my skin crawl._

Once, those touches had just made his skin crawl in a physical sense. Now they crawled literally. Maggots―fat and sickly yellowish white―formed. He’s not sure if they’re real and his memories of what used to be are fake, or vice versa. It’s like that with a lot of things these days. He’s not sure if he’s just imagining a time when things wasn’t like this. It’s getting harder to remember.

Lexi comes back and he relaxes a bit, thinking Addi will hold himself back with him in the room. Lexi still has no light, but he moves at perfect ease.

_How can you be so calm, carrying your own death sentence on your shoulders? Mine too. If you knew. Do you, Lex? Do you know how I feel about you? How are you so calm?_

Mal skips to Lexi’s side, where he’s currently pouring them whiskey. “I’ve told you, Мали брат,” Mal says with a smirk, strokes Lexi’s hair. “He doesn’t _actually_ care for you. It’s all an act, to gain control over you. To gain power. He has no heart. Just look at him. See for yourself what a great actor he is!”

Lexi, unaware of Mal gleefully trailing after him, brings their glasses of whiskey, moving both with confident grace and an air of perfect deference. It’s hard to believe it’s the same man that stood over him with eyes on fire, nostrils flared, lips drawn in a hungry smirk, sheer capital letter **Presence** taking up the whole room, making a promise out of the question ‘ _You want to be good for me, baby boy?_ ’ It wasn’t right. It was against the natural order. A бог брат was above everyone, and should never defer to anyone but _Otac_ , the Uncles, or possibly another брат. But it was different with Lex. Lex had a way of making things easy. ‘ _Just hold on to me, and you won’t get burned. I’ve got you safe and sound._ ’ It’s absurd how _free_ he felt when he gave himself over to Lex the way he had. And Lex always gives back without being asked to. 

“You okay with me smoking, бог брат?” Lexi asks him.

“I’ve told you, knock yourself out, croat,” he answers dismissively. Afraid Addi will know how he feels for Lexi if he’s less arrogant.

“Thank you, Sir. I’ll go get my cigarettes,” Lex says with a small bow to the neck. 

“ _Aaa_ cting,” Mal sing songs merrily.

_No. Not with me. I don’t believe it._

Doubt gnaws.

Addi strokes a lock of hair out of his face, Lex watching with a pleasant expression. “I didn’t know you smoked, Chaadayev?” Addi says with a questioning tilt.

Lexi grunts noncommittally and goes to fetch ashtray, cigarettes and lighter as if they really were his, hiding who they really belong to. Averting questions. He sits down in one of the red armchair across from them and lights a cigarette. Mal leans against its armrest, legs crossed at the ankles and one arm draped on the backrest behind Lex, a disdainful teasing smirk on his lips. “What can I say, Sir. You pick up all manners of bad habits to deal with the shitload of stress you deemed fit to dump on my unsuspecting shoulders two years ago,” Lexi says, as if he wasn't equipped to handle it. _Pfft._ Lex takes a deep lungful of smoke, then blows it out slowly downward, underlining the negativity in the statement. 

“You see what he’s doing, don't you?” Mal asks. “He's playing Addi as he's been playing you. All for his own gain.”

_He’s keeping us safe._

Addi chuckles and holds out his tumbler of whiskey for a salute. “The gratefulness just oozes right off you,” he says with sarcastic amusement and clinks his glass together with Lexi’s. 

“Mmmh. Same pay, ten times more work, fifty times more trouble. Of course I’m grateful, Sir,” Lex answers and winks at Addi, sipping his whiskey, eyes bright and playful.

Addi throws his head back laughing. “We’re still paying you the same? I didn’t know that,” Addi says and drinks from his whiskey once he’s stopped laughing. “That seems wrong. What more do you want? Name a number and it’s yours, Cap.”

“No he's not. He’s flirting. Seducing. I've told you, he doesn’t want you. He's using you. But Addi’s a better choice. You’re broken. A failure. He'd rather have Addi. And it's working too. Can't you feel it's working?” Mal says, contradicting his earlier statement by adopting Leo’s words, and strokes a finger along Lexi’s jawline. 

He wishes Mal would keep one single stance on things.

_Addi hates mudmonkeys._

“So do you. And yet…” Mal says, making doubt crawl like poison, causing needles and pins in his limbs.

Lexi takes another drag on his cigarette and shakes his head with a tight lipped smile. “No, бог брат. I want for nothing. Except for not getting recognised by too many croats I don’t know, some peace and quiet during downtime, and less responsibility. At least you’ve spared me the A-Team jokes, Sir.”

He keeps quiet, sips his drink and listens, watches. Holding back from answering Mal aloud. 

“A-Team jokes? It didn’t even cross my mind. Damn. But Avengers are more apt. Easier to add to, and all of you can star in your own stories, not dependent on having a team. It does work too. I’m using you quite a bit to motivate my croats. The morale has been boosted. These clips we’re about to watch, they’ve all seen them. They need to know that to reach your status they need to be exceptional, multi-purpose tools. Despite your size, you are not a hammer. But as we're about to see, you could have been. In fact, you could have made a career of this.” 

“Yes, that surely would have been an equally lucrative career choice. Sir,” Lexi says with dry humour and blows out smoke upward. Indulging Addi’s humour. Winning him over with the right kind of sass, still without the faintest hint of light inside. It’s nauseating. 

Addi sniggers and mock whispers to him. “Did you hear, мали брат? The croat just called me a moron.” He can feel Addi’s excitement about calling Lex out on the brave sass. Addi finds Lex entertaining, he’s not mad.

“He’s manipulating you both. You saw what he did to Anna. You know what he’s capable of,” Mal says with a smirk and leaves his perch to drape himself over Lexi’s lap. He nuzzles Lexi’s cheek like the teasing shithead he is. Lexi’s head tilts slightly to the side, as if he's aware of Mal’s antics. Leo is still quiet, gaze locked on Addi, on guard. 

“He was spot on in that case. Are we going to watch or not?” he grouses impatiently in reply to Addi. Mal’s teasing is getting to him.

“That was a very free interpretation of what I said, бог брат,” Lex says. 

“Perhaps. But apt. Don’t worry, you're not in trouble,” Addi assures him. 

Mal plays with Lexi’s hair. He wants badly to punch his dead brother. It doesn’t work. He’s tried before. It just makes Mal laugh at him.

Addi presses play to start casting from phone to big screen TV. He turns his attention to the screen. Lex is in a ring of people. Wet and almost naked, looking bored and slightly put upon. Facing off with a behemoth of a guy. 

If Lexi wasn't sitting in the living room with them he'd be scared shitless watching this, fearing the outcome. 

Lex takes a drag from his cigarette and lets the smoke out slowly through his open mouth, dragging his tongue from side to side to shift the sides the smoke pours out from, looking arrogant and unbothered. It’s erotic, the way you see the tip of his tongue slowly glide back and forth behind his lips. The smoke falls out of his mouth rather than flows. 

“Now this one, this one. I can’t decide if it’s the best or the worst,” Addi says with an expectant look on his face. “What do you say, Cap?” he asks Lexi. 

Lex smirks disdainfully and lifts an eyebrow at Addi in answer, taking a sip from his whiskey. Mal stretches out across Lexi’s lap languidly, legs over the armrest and head resting on Lexi’s arm. 

_Asshole._

Addi sniggers and nudges him. “Pay attention now, or you’ll miss it.”

On screen they get the green light to fight and the behemoth goes to attack, throwing a punch. Lex goes from 0 to 100 in the blink of an eye. Darting under the arm, kicking at the knee, using his hand as a dagger punching up, tearing the throat of the guy and darting back, spinning around towards Solo and Tyle, shifting back to 0 again. Body language saying ‘ _I did the bullshit thing you asked of me. Can you stop bothering me now?_ ’. 

He sits up straight with an “Ooooooo!!!” in surprise. His heart hammers in excitement. It’s rare that he gets to see Lex in action while he himself is able to sit and enjoy. Normally he’s either on the receiving end of it, or is busy fighting alongside of Lex. 

“I know, right? A man as large as Chaadayev isn’t supposed to be able to move that fast!” Addi agrees excitedly.

“Holy shit, that was beautiful, Aleksandr,” he tells Lex, letting his admiration show, allowing his smile and eyes to reflect how it ignited something hot inside of him. If Addi wasn’t here he’d shown Lex how fucking hot he thinks Lex is when he shows this side. But Addi’s here.

This fight―over before it began―embodies Lexi’s style perfectly, both tactically and as a fighter. It’s beautiful. Preserving energy. Biding his time. Waiting. Then striking without warning and without elaboration, taking out his target. 

“ _Exactly_ , Мали брат,” Mal says. “That’s what he’s doing to you. He’s pretending to be your friend, lover, and trusted confidant. He’ll turn and strike you down when you’re totally unprepared.”

_He’s had his chances for that._

“I didn’t mean physically,” Mal says with an annoyed eye roll.

“Thank you, бог брат,” Lex answers him, bending his head in grateful humility. The gesture makes it seem like he’s bowing into Mal’s touch, where Mal’s hand is stroking his hair and forehead.

“And this is what I was talking about when I said you weren’t doing anything to dispel the Immortal bullcrap,” Addi says. “Everything from attitude to performance. It’s no wonder you’ve made a reputation for yourself.”

“To be fair, Sir. Fighting wasn’t my idea. I don’t put myself in danger unless I have to,” Lex answers, voice and expression pleasant. 

 

They watch three more fights. One more one-on-one, then two two-to-one.

All the while, Lex is the epitome of calm and unruffled, answering any comment and question. Unbothered. Mal keeps petting him, cuddling him, grooming him like a брат. Teasing fucking brothers that died should stay dead. Mal was never like this alive. This mean. He doesn’t mind the touching. Mal isn’t a threat to Lex. The touches are affectionate. He likes sharing, always did. It’s Mal’s commentary that grates on him.

On screen Lex’s a menace. So fucking fast. Lethal. _Perfect._ He’s in two minds about it. Three minds. For one, he’s enchanted. It’s thrilling. Arousing. But on the other hand, the tactical move to have their first A-lister used like this is fucking madness. An error of great proportions. The third part of him is screaming its outrage at the slight against Lex, and the danger he was needlessly placed in. That part of him is reacting as if any of his браћа had been treated like this, and is screaming for revenge. This was something you should have used fucking pawns for. But he can’t extract revenge against Solo. 

“Why were you doing this?” he asks.

“Saul had problems with a couple of drug cartels trying to intrude upon our business, Sir. So he invited the leaders to negotiate, urging them to bring their best fighter, and later fighter _s_ , as part of the negotiation,” Lex explains. 

He frowns, bothered. “And he used you? That’s fucking dumb.”

“Come on, don’t be a spoilsport like Tyler, Mikey,” Addi complains and kisses him on the neck. He keeps still, hoping Addi will stop. Addi pushes demandingly with his nose until he gives up and gives him better access, bending his neck. Addi hasn’t asked about the bruises around his throat. He’s glad for Addi’s indifference to his blemishes. Unless he himself says he didn’t like how he got them, Addi’s never been one to question. Not like Luci. If Luci still cared for him he’d switch to kill-mode the moment he saw the bruises, then calm down when he was assured they were wanted marks. His heart aches with grief and longing at the thought of Luci.

“No. It’s dumb. I get that this elevates the Immortal legend, but Aleksandr _is_ mortal. And if he’d be killed like this it would devalue the whole A-list status. How we treat him in private is one thing, but the whole idea was to make the croats think they could rise _almost_ to our level. To think they will have better protection, more perks, be talked to as if they’re _almost_ equals. We have a great supply of real hammers, and even pawns for purposes like this. This is like detonating fucking bombs when you want to watch pretty fireworks. Aleksandr is a cunning son of a bitch, who’s picked up a whole range of skills while working for us. Pit fighting is a job for someone of lesser value,” he argues, gesturing with a hand while Addi kisses his throat and sucks a mark, dissolving his flesh to maggots. Leo hisses behind the couch and crouches further down. He ignores the maggots that fall down on his shirt.

The jealousy (possessiveness?) Lex has shown for others is nowhere to be seen. Lex is comfortably cuddling with Mal. Unbothered by what Addi’s doing.

“You sound just like Tyler now. He said the same thing,” Addi says. “Chaadayev only went one more match before Tyle pulled the plug. Let’s watch it. It’s the only one I can't figure out how he was thinking.”

“Shoot,” he agrees. He doesn’t really want to see any more. The discomfort of seeing Lex being used as a fucking dog is taking its toll. No matter how beautiful it is.

Addi hits play on the clip. “The first part is unimportant, we can fast forward to the action.”

“If you want to figure out how I was thinking, бог брат, you must watch it all,” Lexi says and sips the last of his whiskey. 

“Oh?”

“Yes, Sir. Refill?”

Addi nods and Lexi gets up to get the bottle. Mal sliding to his feet in the same motion as Lex, trailing after him to the liquor cabinet. 

He pays rapt attention to the screen, twisting his ring around his finger over his stomach to soothe himself. To better ignore Addi. 

On screen Aleksandr’s standing side by side with Solo and Tyle, opposite four men. The leader and Solo speak pleasantries. A small man stands slightly behind him, the other two are bigger, eyes jaded and cold. There’s quite an audience surrounding them. It had gotten bigger with each match.

They talk for about three minutes before they move to an empty pool. The three men jump into the pool along with Lex, and line up. One in front of him, one to the left and the smaller man further away to his right, edging behind him. The one right in front of him pulls a knife. 

It pisses him off, the unfairness of the game. He should have protected Lex from this somehow. Had he known about the fights he’d put a stop to it. Maybe Solo knew that, and that’s why he hadn’t said a thing. Solo thinks he coddles his croats. He’s not. He’s bringing out the best of them. Like _Otac_ taught them to do. 

Lex refills their drinks without looking at the screen. He can feel Lexi’s discomfort. Something bad is about to happen.

They get the green light to fight and Addi hits pause, freezing the frame as Lex turns and dives for the small guy behind him, while the knife man in front of him lunges. It’s not hard to imagine, with the forward motion, the angles, what’s about to happen. This is where Lex gets the scar he’d traced so lovingly this morning. That he’s kissed so many times since Lex came back to him. This is where metal ripped through flesh. He wants to throw up. Nobody but himself has the right to put a knife to Lexi’s skin. “Why did you go for the small guy when you're getting attacked by a knife from the front? I don't get that,” Addi asks.

He answers in Lexi’s stead. Addi should know that. He should have seen it. Lexi’s loyalty and professionalism is showing through. “Because he was the real leader. The guy beside Saul is just a puppet.”

“Bingo,” Lex confirms. “He was the brain, Sir. Take him out and the cartel would succumb to an internal struggle for leadership and lose morale, easily persuaded to work for us. It was in the best interest of the _Porodica_. Sadly not in my own best interest. Although, the move took them all by surprise, or I would have bit the dust.”

“How do you know that? Saul didn’t.”

“Body language, asshole. Are you blind?” he snipes, stealing the word from Lex once again. “It’s in the unspoken communication. The dummy handles his act well, except for a questioning look to small guy for confirmation. The other two are not as good at not showing their deference.” Both Solo and Addi should have seen _that_. It took him half the duration of the initial conversation to figure it out. He wonders if he’s just really good at reading people, or if Addi and Solo just didn’t care to look. If negotiations didn’t go their way, they’d use force. With unlimited power, why bother? Solo and Addi never did ground work anymore. If they did, they went in after their croats. Some skills get rusty with disuse. Luci would have spotted it right away. He aches hollow at the thought of Luci.

Lexi turns his head towards the frozen screen and chuckles. “If nothing else, Sir, the look of sheer horror on their faces when I took him out, tells it all.”

“Mh,” Addi hums and hits play again. Lexi mutters something and leaves the room. The fight is brutal. Lexi snapped the leader's neck, taking the knife wound to his side in exchange. After that the two remaining opponents doesn’t give Lexi a chance to do anything but block and parry. Tiring him. He manages to disarm the knife man, but someone jumps into the pool and retrieves the knife so no one can use it. The opponents are a perfect team, timing each other with beautiful precision. When Lex blocks one he gets hit by the other. He’s taking so many hits, has nowhere to flee. It’s a fight he can’t win. It’s obvious. 

_How is he still alive?_

There is no yielding in these matches. Last one alive is the winner.

He can’t figure out how Lex is still alive.

_Maybe he isn’t. Maybe I’ve just been hallucinating him, because I miss him._

Mal would probably have answered that, but Mal left the room with Lex. 

Relying on dead people to explain reality to him. That’s great.

Lex is bleeding badly. The black tee he’s wearing hides the amount of blood, but minutes are ticking by and all he can see is the blood streaming out of the wound to be soaked up by the tee.

He spins the ring around his finger. The ring is cold on the outside, warmed by his skin on the inside. 

Lexi asked for his hand and slipped it on with nonchalant ease, like it was a done deal. It _is_ a done deal. He’s just not sure what their deal is. Lexi isn’t telling him that. All he knows is that the ring _means_ something. Enough for his heart to beat erratically when Lex slipped it on, for it to be hard to breathe. Painful. Good. 

All he can see on screen is Lex dying. His strength and speed waning. He’s doomed.

His gut churns, watching. Pulse elevating. He can’t watch, can’t take his eyes off the screen.

One of the opponent slips in a puddle. Falls backward. Hits his head in the tiled pool wall.

It’s the break Aleksandr needed.The fight is evened out to one-on-one for a moment. Suddenly Lex has advantage in size, compared to a fairly equal opponent technique-wise. His punches packs more power. It’s over quickly after that. When the guy who slipped and was knocked out comes to and tries to get up, Lex bashes his head against the wall repeatedly until it’s over. Lex jumps out of the pool like he’s got lots more to give. Another day at the office.

_Acting._

_Fuck._

Lex comes back into the room, Mal skipping by his side. He sits down and reaches for his glass to sip, while Addi turns the TV off. Mal stands behind the armchair, leans his elbows on the backrest. “You’re responsible for that happening to him, Mikey,” Mal says, staring accusingly at him. “You really think he’ll ever forgive you? He won’t. Never.”

_He’s no stranger to risking his life for his job. Or getting physically hurt._

Mal tuts. “He’s a very proud man, Mikey. He knows his own worth. He’s doesn’t like to be mocked or abused for your entertainment. You sent him away to be both. He hates you for it.”

“Now that we’ve seen this,” Addi says. “Care to explain why you’re wearing matching rings?”

Panic. 

Leo speaks up for the first time in quite a while. “Treason! That’s why.”

“I gave it to him as a good luck gift,” Lexi says unfazed, draws Addi’s full attention and relaxes into the armchair. “I’m superstitious enough to believe in such things, and my ring has brought me luck in the past, Sir.”

_Thank fuck. That’s plausible._

“Oh? And since when are you in habit of giving gifts to божја браћа?”

“Since they insist to do jobs way, _way_ below their station, and bringing me as their only backup, Sir. I will use any trick I can to ensure you’re safe under those circumstances.”

Addi smirks and runs a finger over his ring. Lexi sips his whiskey, uncaring. Leo hisses, bares his teeth at Addi.

“Stop. Don’t let him have it! Don’t let him touch it!” Mal protests agitatedly and starts pacing back and forth behind Lexi, scowling at Addi.

“Maybe you should give me such ring too, then,” Addi challenges, eyeing Lexi’s ring, wanting it.

His skin in too tight.

_No. No. No. No. No. No._

“If you dive into borderline suicide missions right by my side, Sir. I will,” Lexi sasses.

_Would you? Would you really, Lex? You’re just lying now aren’t you? It means something to you. To us. Doesn’t it?_

_You gave it to me because you love me._

“He doesn’t love you, moron,” Mal protests. “He’s manipulating you.”

_He loves me. He said so._

Mal laughs mockingly. Even Leo sniggers, but doesn’t let his eyes leave Addi.

“Mikey. You hallucinated that. That wasn’t real. He never said that. That wasn’t _real_ ,” Mal says, somewhere between pity, contempt, and mockery.

Nausea.

Fear.

It’s so hard to tell what’s real. So hard.

Lex leans forward with a grin, meeting Addi’s gaze. “But if you want a gift from me I can give you something you’ll appreciate much more than a piece of mixed metal, Sir. Just give me two hours, tops.”

Addi’s curious. “Please, go ahead,” he says with interest motions permission for Lex to leave.

“You want me to send a couple of girls up before I go?” Lex asks.

They answer at the same time.

“No.”  
“ _Yes,_ ” his own answer, desperate.

“Come on, Mikey. I’ve missed you. I’m leaving tonight. Can’t we skip the girls for once?” Addi whines.

What can he say? There are no good excuses. Plus his thighs have scars he needs to hide. There’s no explaining those. He hadn’t thought this far when he turned to his knife to chase the darkness away. To confirm reality. 

_I love my brother._

“Alright,” he gives in. “No girls.”

Mal stays when Lexi leaves.

It’s not so bad. Addi just talks. Bitches about his wife and job. It’s nice.

“No it’s not. Make him leave. Make him stop touching us!”

“Have him stay away from us!”

“Stop! Go away! _Stop touching us!_ ”

Mal and Leo won’t stay quiet.

“He stole from us, Mikey! The croat is right. Heed his advice on this issue. Get Addi _away from us_!”

_I love my brother._

_I love my brother._

_I love my brother._

Colour has washed clean out of everything like an old faded photograph. The room keeps shrinking. The whispers start up. So many voices.

Eventually, Addi gets tired of talking. Hands trail inside his shirt, dissolves his skin into more maggots. Leo curls into a ball and squeezes his eyes shut. Mal screams in outrage.

He gets out of the couch. Needs more alcohol. Anything to numb. His skin feels like the static on TV.

_I love my brother._

_I love my brother._

_I love my brother._

_I love my brother._

The whispering voices taunt him, threaten, blame him for denying Addi. They tell him Addi loves him. Wants to show his affection. That he’s ungrateful. 

Addi traps him against the backrest of the couch. Leo presses his hands against his ears, draws his knees up to his chest and rocks back and forth on the floor. Addi’s lips is on his, hip against hip, too close. Confining. Tongue demanding entrance.

_I love my brother._  
_I love my brother._  
_I love my brother._  
_I love my brother._  
_I love my brother._

The whispers are louder. A loud mumbling now. Urging him to comply to anything. He won’t. He can’t go there. The voices are angry, scorning, disappointed, pleading.

“Oh my god,” Mal snaps. “ **SHUT UP!** ” he rages.

Quiet.

_How did you do that? I didn’t know you could do that._

“Of course I can. Why do you think they don’t bother you when I’m around? Now get him off us! He’s disgusting. Fucking freak. **STOP**!” Mal tries pulling at Addi’s arm. He’s as upset now as he was when Addi was pawing Lex. Pushes and pulls. Addi’s not budging.

He tries telling Addi off. He _tries_. But Addi always has the right answers. Addi coos and cajoles. 

_Just let it happen._

It’s easier. Addi won’t push beyond that limit where the other part takes over, demanding blood. When he barely remembers what he’s done afterwards. Only knows he’s riding high. Addi might be the only брат who’s seen him like that, directed at Addi instead of those hated mudmonkeys. If he lets this happen it won’t go past that limit.

Leo shrinks in further on himself, gets younger. Fifteen perhaps. Mumbling incoherently and rocking.

“Don’t let him―Mikey _NO_!” Mal makes a wounded animal noise, giving up his tries to pry Addi off.

He closes his eyes, puts his hands on the backrest. Gives free access. Addi demands no participation. Not any more. Hands may go where they go, as well as mouth. His skin feels like it’s asleep. Numb.

A knock on the door.

Addi steps away from him. “Well, well. Seems like Captain America is back early. Let's see what gift he thinks he can give me, that would please me,” Addi says with a mocking tone, smirking.

He remains in place while Addi goes to open. Mal trails after Addi. Leo unfolds enough to look towards the door.

At first he can’t see what Lexi brought. Leo sees it before him. “He saved us! Your croat saved us, Mikey. Useful for once,” Leo says relieved.

Addi’s posture shows he’s absolutely delighted.

“This is the man I was telling you about, Joe,” he hears Lex say. “He’s going to teach you something secret, that only adults know about. But you’re a big boy, right? You can keep a secret, yeah?”

Silence.

“That’s right. You were chosen for this because you’re very special. Special enough to handle grown up’s secrets,” Lexi praises. “Will you tell him how big you are, Joe?” 

“I'm foujj,” says the voice of a child, still unable to say ‘R’.

_No he didn’t!_

“Yep. Yep, he did,” Mal confirms with a troubled frown from where he’s standing by Addi’s shoulder.

Cold. He’s ice inside all the sudden.

_Lexi **hates** that kind of stuff! He’s got trouble handling it with adults for God’s sake!_

“Mhm. And yet. Here he is, with the best fucking distraction from us you could have asked for,” Mal says.

“Oh my. You _are_ a big boy, indeed. Hello, Joe. You can call me Erus*. You like candy, Joe?” Addi says.

Erus. The Latin word for owner, master of a house, proprietor, master of a family, Lord, God.

_Blasphemy! If anyone should call himself that, it’s_ Otac _! He’s not entitled!_

He’s taking offense. Addi might be the oldest, and just talking to a mudmonkey boy, but there are limits. A ball of anger curls amidst the ice. He spins the ring around his finger, calming himself.

Addi takes something from his pocket and hands the child, then steps aside to let Lex in. Lex eyes searches him out. He’s still dark. He looks kind and soft, strong and dependable, like always when he’s dealing with children. A hero to seek shelter with.

_Why are you doing this, Lex?_

“Who cares, it’s working. He’s playing Addi like a flute. Addi won’t touch you or him now, as well as be very pleased with him,” Mal says.

“He saved us,” Leo repeats.

Addi holds out his hands to the little boy who lets go of Lexi and reaches for him. Addi’s face warps, twists into something nightmarish. Not a common occurrence. His brothers are usually free from distortions.

Lexi says goodbye to the kid, takes his leave, going to the guest room with one last unreadable glance in his direction.

A бог брат has the right to do whatever he wants with simple mudmonkeys. He has to remind himself of that, when Addi brings the boy over to say hello. Blonde, that almost whitish blonde colour Luci had as a small boy, before it darkened with age. Blue eyes. So innocent. Uncorrupted. 

“You want to help teach Joe grown up secrets, Damon?” Addi asks him, assigns him a fake name. It sounds like ‘demon’. He feels like one. Maybe he is.

The floor turns to rotten sludge, squishing sickly underfoot when he shifts. He’s made of ice, crawling all over.

“No we fucking don’t!” Mal protests, comes to stand between Addi and him.

“Thank you, but I’m not authorised to give such lessons,” he answers. Smiles at the boy.

“Good. Then you can help me document it,” Addi says, making it a done deal. Probably smiling. It’s hard to say with how his features twists all the time. But he’s radiating glee.

Leo whimpers. Curl back in on himself, covers his ears, closes his eyes.

Time passes way too slowly. Leo keeps growing younger, rocking himself in a corner. Mal’s quiet. Troubled. Restless. Keeps looking longingly in the direction Lexi disappeared. 

The only shield he has between what goes on and himself is Addi’s phone, held up to film it. Addi’s words slither out like thin inky tendrils, attaching themselves to the boy, dimming his light. Coercing, cajoling, convincing. He’s a pro, twisting the boy’s mind, playing it sweet, nice, praising. Making the boy distrust his own feeling of wrong. Oh, he’s good. He’s good at this. He knows how to keep the trust of the innocents, while he uses them. 

In the bedroom he can’t take it anymore. He wants to make it stop. Lunge at the bed and stab his knife―the little silvery one they’ve all got one of―in the base of Addi’s neck. Set the bed on fire to purge it.

When the room suddenly erupts in flames he closes his eyes in terror and throws himself against the wall. The expected thud to his shoulder never comes. Nor a burn. He opens his eyes to find himself lying on the living room floor on the other side of the wall, staring up in Mal’s eyes.

He can’t feel his heart. Isn’t drawing breath.

“I wondered how long it’d take before you did that,” Mal says and holds out a hand for him to grab.

He doesn’t move.

_I died in the blast?_

Mal shakes his head. “There was no blast. Grab my hand, I’ll help you up.”

Carefully, with trepidation, he reaches out, touches Mal’s hand. It’s solid. Mal doesn’t give him time to process before tugging him up and embracing him.

_Are you sure I’m not dead?_

“No. But I’m sure there was no blast. If you open your eyes you’ll see.”

_My eyes are open._

“No they aren’t,” Mal insists.

How do you open eyes that aren’t closed? He tries. And tries. Still locked in Mal’s comforting embrace. He’s solid, but not warm, nor cold. Has no smell.

His eyes open. How he does it he has no idea. He sees the living room and the bedroom at the same time and is hit with the worst case of vertigo he’s ever felt. He closes his eyes again and there’s just the living room. Leo’s still curled in a corner, de-aged. Rocking himself. A little boy, six years old at most. He’s chanting something.

Mikey’s so fucking afraid. He’s going mad. He is mad. Knew that already. Thinks he knows. He’s not sure. He’s never sure anymore. Just goes with what he thinks are facts. None of this makes sense.

_You sure I’m not dead?_

That would be a relief.

“No.”

_Great._

He frees himself. Approaches Leo instead. Wanting to know what he’s saying. “Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.”

_Kill who?_

“Addi. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.”

Somewhere deep, _deep_ inside of him, he can feel the chant echo. He’s here, but he’s also in there, filming still, staring at the back of his brother’s back, wanting to carve him up, make him stop. Make the sheets run red with his blood.

_I love my brother._

If loving a Croatoan, and a mudmonkey, covering up the same sin for Luci, is a bad sin. Murdering his brother is a thousand times worse.

_I love my brother._  
_I love my brother._  
_I love my brother._

“Repeating it won’t make it true, you know,” Mal says.

_How did I do this?_

He looks down on his body. It’s solid. Real.

“Like you always do,” Mal says, looking him, troubled and expectant.

_I’ve never done this before._

Leo stops rocking, looks up at him, gets older again. Back to the eighteen year old he was when he died. “You do it all the time. Unless _he’s_ here. You should kill him too.”

“Oh, shut it, Leo,” Mal snaps. “If he’d kill everyone you suggested, there’d be no more people left in the world. The croat is a game changer. He makes it interesting. Besides, he saved us. Cut him some slack, will ya?”

_I’ve done this before?_

He can’t remember. It scares him. He’s not sure if he’s real. If he ever was. He’s caught in some absurd dream. He’s not sure it’s _his_ dream.

There’s an almost uncontrollable rage rolling somewhere within him, clawing for freedom, being tampered down and masked. He hears himself talk, feels his lips stretch into a smile. Yet his mouth is closed and still.

“That’s because you’re talking in the other room, airhead,” Mal says and cuffs him on the shoulder. “You don’t somaticize, you do this. And then you insult us by refusing to remember.”

“If you stay with us, you’ll never be a failure again, Mikey. You could be the perfect брат. Always do your duty. Please _Otac_. You’re safe with us,” Leo tempts him.

He looks longingly towards the closed guestroom door.

“No. You can’t keep him then. He’s treason. I can’t believe you ratted _me_ out, then went and did the same thing yourself. I fucking _hate_ you!” Leo says with a grimace and curls back into a tight ball again, pouting this time.

_I did not rat you out!!_

“Are you sure?” Mal asks.

He isn’t. He isn’t sure of anything. He used to be sure he hadn’t betrayed Leo. But he isn’t anymore. He knew about Leo and the girl. Who else had known? Liam, yes. But Liam loved his twin brother more than anything else in this world. Liam wouldn’t have told _Otac_ , causing Leo’s death. 

Maybe he _had_ told _Otac_. Done his duty. Been good. Not a failure. Not like now.

Since he sent Lex away and distanced himself from Luci to protect him, the world had gotten increasingly unreal. Warped. Twisted. Dark.

Drugs helped him cope. Even enjoy the weirdness. Cutting himself chased the surreality away. Shutting voices up and dispelling visions. If only for a short while.

Then Lexi came back for him, bringing light and love. Sometimes when Lex touched him, the touch would make another light draw up from his core and spread through his body. Somehow thawing him like the spring sun on frosted grass. His own light. He can’t remember ever having had a light of his own. He must have had it since always, because it felt old. Like it had been crammed into a box and suddenly got to stretch its limbs. When he was alight there were no voices. No dead people haunting him, no visions. Except Mal. Mal was immune for some reason.

On the other hand, problems felt a hundred times more real, insurmountable. Despite Lexi’s promise that there was a way. That they could be free and happy.

“Treason. He continues to try to get you to commit high treason. And once you do, he’ll betray _you_ ,” Leo says bitterly, disgusted.

_He won’t. He loves me. He said so._

“He doesn’t love you. He never said it. It’s all in your head. He loves that Collins guy. That’s the one he wants,” Leo counters. They’ve been through this so many times. The big question. Whether Lex loves him or not. He tries telling himself he doesn’t care either way. That it doesn’t matter if the feeling is reciprocated or not. He’s given up on that. It’s a lie. It’s very important to him. It’s the difference between being in this together and being alone. He can’t handle ‘alone’ very well.

_So what? One love doesn’t cancel another out. He wants Collins? I’ll give him to Lex._

Mal laughs and gives Leo a kick. “Told you. Jealousy doesn’t work on our Mikey. You don’t remember how important it was that we all got shares, if there wasn’t enough to go around? That he made sure we were happy and content, before he saw to himself?”

“Don’t kick me, asshole!” Leo snaps. Mal kicks him again, sniggering. Leo launches himself from the floor and Mikey turns his back to them, tired of seeing their fights. Mal called it playfighting. Leo called it Mal being an asshole. It was nothing like when they were alive. Leo, full of hate now, was a happy-go-lucky type in life. Mal was caring. Not a teasing shithead.

The fight behind him suddenly stops and he turns around just in time to see himself and Addi coming out from the bedroom. Addi’s carrying the boy who has a thumb in his mouth. Leo hisses at Addi and scuttles as far away as he can. Mal comes to his side and jerks him away from where his other self is approaching. “Careful. If you touch, you’ll be sucked back in.”

_I have to go back._

“No you don’t. But if you feel like you must, wait. Wait until Addi’s left. Okay, мали брат?” Mal is still looking out for him at times. Like now. He feels that it’s true. Like if he goes back right now, the knife in his pocket will burn a hole and he’ll carve Addi to shreds for what he’s just done to the boy, mudmonkey or not, брат or not.

_How come I don’t see double?_

His other self has his eyes open. 

“Your eyes are still closed. Your mental eyes, мали брат,” Mal says and hugs him from behind. They wait like that until Addi’s left.

Being that near himself is like standing close to a bonfire. He emits emotions like a fire emits heat. Rage, desperation, confusion, fear, and hate. So _much_ hate.

As scary as this is, it’s nothing compared to what it’s like to be inside himself. Leo pleads with him, tempts and taunts. Anything to stop him from touching his other self. Make him stay. 

He’d be free. 

He touches himself.

* * *

He has no idea how he got to where he’s standing.

Then, like fast forwarding a movie. An info dump that makes no sense.

Nausea. The images in his brain are as repulsive as the rotting corpse he’d seen in the store cellar with Lex.

He’s alone now. Leaning his forehead against the door Addi left from. He feels like he’s forgotten something. His stomach keeps turning. He refuses to throw up.

“Why does this keep happening?” he asks out loud, hating the feeling of having forgotten something.

Nobody’s there to answer.

He pushes himself away from the door and stalks to the bedroom. He wants to set it on fire. Burn the bed to get the images out of his head. He rips the bedding off, they’re full of maggots crawling. The boy had reminded of Luci. Right in front of him, Addi had showed him that he didn’t differentiate between браћа and mudmonkeys. That wasn’t love. That was ugly, dirty, disgusting.

He feels that he’s not alone anymore.

“That’s why Lex did it right? To show me what kind of disgusting creep Addi is?” he asks without turning around, uncaring for _who’s_ joined him.

“Yes. He saved us. Addi’s no brother of ours, kill him!” Leo answers while he changes the bedding.

“Leo, you dumb fuck,” Mal says. “You’re always trying to convince Mikey Lex is trying to get him to commit treason. Killing Addi would definitely be treason! Pick a side.”

He collects the dirty-gross-spoiled-defiled bedding and goes to the living room, Leo and Mal getting out of the way. His heart is thumping so hard it physically hurts. He dumps the bedding on the floor. It’s left a trail of maggots. He _hates_ those fucking maggots.

He feels cold and clammy. He needs a shower from just having watched what Addi did. He needs Lex. He needs to be alone. He needs…

He goes to the bathroom. Closes the door. Sinks down against the wall, hugs his knees. “Fuck.”

Leo’s there. Mal too. Looking at him. They don’t need doors to get to him.

“Can’t you just leave me alone?”

_Why, why, why, would Lex do this? It’s not like him._

“What difference does it make? He might have been protecting us. He might have done it to manipulate Addi. It worked. He’s gone now. For all we know he’s never coming back. He’s leaving you. You mean nothing to him,” Leo says.

“Acting,” Mal agrees.

“He loves me.”

“Here we go again,” Mal says rolling his eyes.

“He _does_!”

“Forget about him for once. Addi’s the real problem,” Leo says.

“I know! But what am I supposed to do about it? He’s our _brother_!” he snaps, desperate. He’s a failure. Powerless. Weak. Alone. Alone. Alone.

“You need to make him stop touching us. Just have him leave us alone,” Mal says. “You make a move against him, you’ll start that war the croat talked about.”

“Or you can get rid of them both. If the croat is as loyal to you as you seem to think,” Leo says, getting excited. “You can order _him_ to get rid of Addi. _He’ll_ take the fall and the _Porodica_ will be untouched by internal war.”

“NO! Stop! I don’t want to hear it!” he yells, desperate. His body hurts from the mere thought.

“For fuck sake, Leo. We’re not getting rid of the croat. He’s making things interesting. He’ll find the solution to right past wrongs,” Mal says annoyedly to Leo.

It starts an argument, of course. He’s alone. Can’t get his heart to stop racing. He’s alone, save for dead people. Dead people arguing and shouting at each other. Lex is gone. Luci’s gone. Tyle, Doug, Sam, Pete, Tad… all far, far away. It’s too much. “Oh my God! Can’t you two argue somewhere else and _leave me the hell alone!_ ” he shouts, stares angrily at Mal and Leo.

“Baby boy?”

The voice makes him snap his head around to see Lex in the door, peeking inside.

_No, no, no. You can’t be dead. What will I do if you’re dead?_

“Lexi? When did you die?”

Lex shakes his head, eyes soft and concerned. “I’m not dead yet. Old in bed remember? You talking to ghosts?”

Panic, desperation, in every cell of his body. Lex can’t be here in reality. Only dead people come here. And if he’s not here, he’s with Addi. “You’re not here. You’re at the airport with Addi,” he challenges.

“Leaving without saying goodbye? I don’t think so,” Lexi says, a warm twinkle in his eyes. Lex steps inside, goes to his knees in front of him, dropping a small plastic bag, and puts hands on his knees. Warm, solid, _real_ hands. Leo vanishes with a plopping noise, as if he were a bubble that burst. 

_He’s alive!_

There are no words to describe the relief.

“You’re alive.” He reaches out and tugs Lexi close, winds his arms around him and inhales deeply by Lexi’s neck. Wanting to feel him as close as possible. 

_You came back for me._

“Very much so, baby boy,” Lexi says with a deep chuckle, soothing, warm.

“He took your light with a single touch. _One touch_ , and you were gone. I almost thought he killed you at first. The boy, the boy just dimmed at his touch, and shone brighter again when you picked him up, but you went completely dark,” he says, muffled by Lexi’s shoulder. Trying to voice his fears. Trying to break his one rule, to conceal. He wants Lex to know the horror he felt. Lex is always asking. Wanting to know.

“Michael, can you see auras?” Lex asks tentatively.

“I don’t know. People hold light. Some stronger than others. Kids in particular. I don’t know what it is and I can’t explain. Just. Just. You’ve been shining brighter since your return. Brighter every time you come here. Usually you dim down when we fight, but not this week. This week you flared like a beacon, chasing away the darkness. And then Addi came and took that light with one touch.” 

“Am I still dark?” Lex asks curiously.

He leans back a bit to look at Lex. He almost feels like crying in relief, seeing the muted glow of Lexi’s core. “No. Muted, but not dark.”

“Good,” Lex says, lips curving up in a warm smile.

Doubts still gnaw.

“Aleksandr, would you really have given Addi a ring if―“

Lexi scowls fiercely and interrupts him. “ _Eyy!_ The fuck you think? Not even if my life depended on it. I love _you_ , not him. I can’t exactly tell him that, you get what I’m sayin?”

“You do?” 

Lex chuckles. How does eyes the colour of metal and stone get to be so warm? “I’ve said so before, haven’t I? What? You got another concussion I don’t know about?”

He smiles, looks down in his lap in shame. “I wasn’t sure that was real.”

“What are you? A girl, who needs to hear it all the time? No need to make a big thing out of it. Why do you think I keep coming back to you like a dumb fucking moron, letting you play spin the wheel with my emotions? I don’t fucking need that, but here I am. And not just for the fun of it, you get what I’m sayin?”

_See? He loves me!_

“Alright. So maybe I’m wrong,” Mal admits from where he’s sitting on the edge of the tub, watching them.

He sniggers at Mal. Body fluttering and light.

“Oy, I need to get going now or Adirael might have a fit for all I know―“ Lex says.

“Don’t worry,” he interrupts. “You’re flying miles over on his good side, what with the stunt you pulled. He won’t mind a little delay.”

Lex smiles tightly, eyes getting darker. “When you’re a Croatoan, you can’t afford taking chances like that, Mikey. But I wanted to give you something before I go, okay?” He picks up the little plastic bag he dropped when he sat down and takes out its content.

“Markers?”

Lex opens the pack of red, green, blue, and black markers and takes out the red one. Warm fingers grip his wrist and pulls up the sleeve. “Yes. Anytime you feel the need to cut, you take one of these fuckers and…” Lex bites the cork and pulls the pen out of it, still holding his wrist, and draws a stripe on the back of his forearm. “Juscht dwaw anythhin on youjj schkin,” Lex says, the cork in his mouth distorting his speech. He lets go of the wrist and puts the cork back on, putting the marker back in the pack. His inner light shines brighter by the second. Soon it’ll extend beyond his body like it should. “If that ain't workin, take your sketchbook and draw yourself cutting yourself. Lots of red for the blood or whatever. Draw your demons. Vent art it’s called, yeah? If that ain’t workin, have Peters get some poor loser who’ve crossed us up here, and bring out your carving tools, okay? Or call me. If I can’t take the call, I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Only if none of that shit works, then you can go for drugs or cutting yourself. And make sure it’s good stuff, from us, if you go for drugs. Can you do this for me?”

His heart is thumping hard in his chest. Too big.

He runs a finger over the stripe Lex drew with a smile, thinking of something Lex once said ‘... _it’s on my fucking skin, you get what I’m sayin?_ ’. Then he was talking about sacrifices made to the _Porodica_. But here it is, on _his_ skin. A physical proof that this is real. Not something he’s hallucinating. Lex is asking him for promises he’s not sure he can uphold. He shouldn’t take orders from a Croatoan. But they’re more than that. It’s love. Lex said so. It’s real. “Is this the best you can draw?” he teases.

Lex gives him a dark look, grabs a marker without looking (blue), uncorks it, grabs his wrist again and tugs his arm closer. He watches Lexi’s face while he draws something. Every line on his tanned face, so familiar, getting more beautiful every time he looks. The hair falling soft onto his forehead―currently creased in concentration. The silver strands in stark contrast to the tan. It makes him ache inside that Lex will leave soon.

Lex caps the marker and puts it back. “There. Because apparently we’re fucking seven,” Lex says with a fed up frown and cuffs him on the head.

He scowls at the unforeseen cuff, looks down at his arm, and bursts out laughing. He can’t help it. It’s just too much. Joy blossoms too rapidly. There, on his arm

`Lexi`  
❤  
`Mikey`

Evidence, erasing all his doubts. He needn’t question his memory. It’s on his skin. It’s real. The meaning of the ring. All of Lexi’s nagging for him to eat, to not do drugs, to take care of himself. This is why. There’s no doubt. It’s real. It’s real. 

Lex grunts and rolls his eyes. “Why do I even bother?” he mutters and gets to his feet. “Just call me, okay? I don’t care what time it is. If I can answer, I will.” So often gruff, harsh in his speech. But loving in his actions.

He’s still giggling, looking up at Lex with glee. Can’t contain it. Doesn’t want to. When Lex leaves, hell will be back. But this is real. Something to hold onto. A reason to fight. He’s not alone anymore.

“Michael, tell me this. Am I misreading what’s going on between us?” Lex asks with annoyance and a thread of uncertainty. Lex is never uncertain, even when he says ‘I don’t know’.

He gets to his feet, grabs Lex by the collar and pulls him in for a kiss. “I don’t think so, Lexi. Now get going before I keep you here and ruin it all,” he says and steals another kiss. Soft, warm lips. Feeling the way it should feel to be kissed. Butterflies and electricity. Hope. He’s not sure what’s going on between them. Where they are. Where Lex is leading them. But he trusts Lex to get them there. He’s got Lexi’s motive on his arm, his declaration of personal allegiance on his finger. This is what Leo died for. What Luci’s rebelling for. And he’ll be following in their footsteps. Is already. Following his beacon out of the darkness. He’ll try. It tears at him. He’s not equipped to betray his brothers, but he’ll break rules. Give in. Trust Lex to be his partner in this game he has no name for.

“But you take care, alright?” Lex asks, capturing his hand, lifting it and pressing their palms and fingers flat against each other so their rings click together. Like the visitors do with their loved ones when visiting in jail, talking through a glass wall. It’s fitting. He’s imprisoned in his madness and Lex is plotting his escape for him.

“You know it,” he answers with sarcastic humour. He doesn’t know if he _can_ take care. He’ll try. But sometimes it’s too much. He has no control. Can’t make promises.

Lex looks worried for a beat before his features smooths out and goes soft and accepting. “Fair enough.” Lex places a lingering kiss on his forehead. “I’ll take the sheets with me when I go. Order Peters to burn them. You need a new apartment, we’ll fix that too.”

“I think I’ll manage.”

“Alright. I’m off. Stay safe, baby boy. I’ll be back when I can.”

One last kiss.

Alone again. Heart still too big. 

He’s holding his arm out, running fingers over the declaration of love on his forearm.

“Love is how war starts, мали брат. How empires fall,” Mal says, looking at the heart over his shoulder, careful not to touch him. But Mal’s face is soft, he’s smiling.

“Don’t I know it. Why do you look so happy about it?”

“Look at your chest, мали брат. Look at your chest.”

He does. From under shirt and skin, he sees it. The muted light. Despite it all, he shines.

* * *


	12. Making Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha does his best trying to juggle all the roles he's playing and the goals he's making for himself, as well as doing his job. It's wearing on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains minor spoilers for VC.

* * *

**2014**

* * *

Summer

He didn’t think he could hate Addi any more than he did before. He was wrong. Fucking scum of the earth. No matter how tempting it was to dispose of him now, it’d get him busted. He’d suffered through the whole plane ride sitting opposite Addi in his private jet, talking ‘pleasantries’. Addi had been overly nice to him. It made him feel like he was covered in grease.

Finally he is free of the snake.

‘Free’ is a relative term. Doug has given him their new orders and he’s heading to the conference room to meet up with the American team, carrying a bunch of folders containing each Croatoan pair's mission for the week. The ones hitting globally have been dispatched already, briefed by Doug himself as it was their first go. He’s tired as fuck and just wants to sleep, but has a lot to work to do.

He opens the door and steps inside, doing a quick head count as his colleagues get to their feet. “Where’s Carpenter and Guinness?” he asks in lieu of greeting. There’s two new faces in the crowd instead of the two mentioned. One of them is black. Doug had failed to mention the new guys, acting like a nincompoop in face of Addi’s visit.

“Hospital and graveyard, Sir,” Mitchell answers. “Бог брат Douglas brought in Shane and Waldorff instead. They’ve been briefed in how to handle the wares.”

“Who’s who?”

“I’m Waldorff, Sir,” the white guy says. “Shane,” says the black guy.

He walks up to the long table they’re standing in front of and shakes hand with both of them (testing if the ring will burn them), then turns to face Shane directly. He’s mid thirties, short cropped hair, has a goatee. “Alright, Shane. You’ll be benched for this round. I’ll reassign you to either the Nordic team or put you on recon. Your choice.”

Shane frowns. “Why?”

“Because you’re black.”

That hit a nerve. “The fuck kinda racist talk is that?” Shane protests angrily, not giving a shit about titles. Sasha doesn’t mind.

“My point exactly,” Sasha says. He steps away from Shane and addresses the whole group with a serious face. “Take a seat.”

Sasha motions for his men to sit down. While they do so he waits until scrape of chairs has died down and the men give him full attention again. Once they do he walks slowly along the table towards his own place at the high seat. “The Croatoan virus is, as you know, the biggest operation the _Porodica_ has undertaken. It is the first of its kind. Instead of releasing a disease and let in spread willy nilly, the божја браћа have chosen to decide where and when it will hit. They've chosen to let it carry our name, honouring us. It kills silently, causing fear, just like us. It’s unstoppable, just like us. It can get to any man, regardless of station, just like us.” He stops behind his seat, not sitting down, and drops the folders on the table in front of him. 

He makes sure to shift his gaze, meeting the eye of every man, while he talks. “As of this year, the word Croatoan will be known to the masses as something frightening. And yet they won't know the real danger that walks amidst them. Us. We've been allowed to show how good we are by being the ones to spread it. And today we start hitting more difficult targets. You’re no longer going in alone. You’ll have your partner's back. The important thing is to get the job done without drawing attention to yourself or the job. Anything goes wrong―and it will―you cover it up as something else. You have to kill? Move the body to a location untraceable to the water plant. You’re spotted? Make it look like an employee tried to commit a pecuniary crime against the company or something like that. Use your creativity. I don’t want to read about strange activity in the news. We fly under the radar here. Until then vaccine is released, I don’t want to hear anyone but mad conspiracy tinhatters talking about the virus being spread on purpose. Is that clear?”

“ _Yes, Sir!_ ” his men answer.

He continues. “Apart from being an all-boys club, the _Porodica_ is an equal opportunity employer. _Otac_ and the божја браћа care jack shit what colour we have, what gods we pray to, how we dress, or who we fuck. We’re recognised for our individual skills. If we are exceptional in one way or another, we are recruited. There’s not one mediocre man amongst us.” He smirks. “A lot of assholes, sure. But no mediocre ones.”

There’s spread laughs and sniggers amongst the men.

“We are not cannon fodder like pawns. _But_ we are still expendables to the божја браћа. So we’re being greatly compensated for the risks we take. However, you’re under my command now. I refuse to lose any of you unnecessarily on a job. You go in on my command, you come out alive.” He turns towards Shane. “I don’t make the rules of the countries I operate in, I just adapt to the circumstances. We’re in America. America is _not_ an equal opportunity country. Racism is still strong and the country has found the loopholes needed to systematically bereave their poor of the right to vote, forcing them to legal slavery. Black means shoot on sight for the American police. I ain’t havin it. I don’t doubt your competence, Shane. You wouldn’t be here if you were a klutz. But battle plans only live until first contact with the enemy. And America is full of trigger happy racists in pig’s uniform. If I’m deeming the risk to the mission or my men too high, I will bench you and find another solution. You don’t have to like it, as long as you suck it up, you get what I’m sayin?” 

“Yes, Sir.” Shane may not look too happy about it, but he doesn’t look indignantly pissy anymore.

Sasha looks at the rest of the men putting his hands on the table, leaning forward. “That goes for all of you. We’re fucking Croatoans! They say there’s no honour amongst thieves? The fuck do they know? When we’re on a job, we’re more than just colleagues. We’re brothers. We watch each other’s backs. We get the job done, none the wiser. Understood?”

_Yes, Sir!_ ”

“Backstabbing and scuffling you save for your free time, alright?”

Spread laughter again.

He pauses for a beat to think, then addresses Shane. “Shane, do you want to stay here on team America, or you wanna be transferred to another country? If you stay, I’ll put you on recon for two of the hardest targets, but you won’t be allowed to participate in the actual drop.”

“Stay, Sir,” Shane says without a moment's hesitation. Sasha’s pleased with that. The drop may be more ‘prestigious’ work, but recon would make two of the hits so much easier. 

“Fair enough. You’ll be teamed up with Pӕrsson, Kojak, and Waldorff,” he says, joining two pairs together. Directing himself to all of them again he says, ”Now. Here’s files for this week. We’ll be going in strong on high security areas…” he hands the files out, briefs them, answer questions, and dismisses them.

Mitchell stays behind when the others file out. He comes to sit on the table beside Sasha’s folder, legs dangling, putting his folder on top of Sasha’s. Sasha digs up his pack of cigarettes, takes one and offers Mitchell to take one. “We’re smokers now?” Mitchell asks with a lopsided smirk, but nevertheless takes one, digs up a lighter from his own pocket and lights the cigarette. He takes a deep drag without coughing, holding his cigarette out close to the tips of his fingers.

“Ey. Nobody’s forcing you,” Sasha answers and lights his own cigarette. He puts the pack on the file in front of him and leans back tiredly, stretching his legs under the table. He inhales deeply from his cigarette, feeling the soothing effect spread. It’s a shit decision to smoke. He’ll stop. But not now.

Mitchell watches him. When he takes another drag of his cigarette he adjusts his grip on the cig, relaxing his fingers to be cupped and moves the cig to be held far in between the fingers, copying the way Sasha holds it. “You flew in with Adirael.”

“That I did,” Sasha confirms.

“What’s he like?”

“He’s great,” Sasha states flatly and runs a tired hand over his face.

Mitchell sniggers in amusement.

“Fuck sake. What you want me to say?” Sasha says. “He’s a Sin-Božji. They’re all smart, dangerous, and fucking insane, every last one of them. I don’t think I’d be so willing to follow their lead if they weren’t.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“I beg to differ. If they were sane, they would see limitations where they now instead prove there aren’t any. Just look at our current project.”

Mitchell mulls it over, then makes a sturgeon face with raised eyebrows, shrugging a shoulder to concede to the point. He blows out smoke upward and takes a new drag on the cig. Every move is so alike Sasha’s it’s scary. Mitchell is a very dangerous man. What he does, it’s working. Even though Sasha’s well aware of him doing it, emulating gestures, adapting himself to Sasha, it’s working. It raises his likeability.

“So what were you talking about earlier? Legal slavery?” 

“When you’re in prison you’re forced to work, building stuff and whatever. The prisons are owned by private companies making big bucks. And it’s not just real criminals who end up in jail. It’s poor people. People get arrested for bullshit charges, can’t pay bail or a decent lawyer, gets talked into pleading guilty and doing time to ‘get things over with’ and go on with their lives. While they’re in jail they earn money for the private company running the joint. When they get out they have a harder time getting jobs. Worse. Some states prohibits anyone convicted of a felony to vote, further diminishing their chance of getting out of the gutter. They can get fucked over for a broken taillight. Anything. So slavery is still legal practise here, endorsed by the state. It’s fucked up.” Slavery is best left to the dark side, according to Sasha. Let the _Porodica_ make money on it. It doesn’t sit well with him when a country does the same thing.

Mitchell’s been looking at him like he’s mad, and bursts out laughing. “Crap! What are you? Some fucking social justice warrior?” he sniggers. 

Sasha scowls, blows out smoke sharply downwards and takes a short drag on the cig. “Oy. I’m stating fucking facts. Not writing a fucking manifesto, you get what I’m sayin? It’s what it is. You got to know the system to fuck it over.” More so now. Since he’s been charged with responsibility over so many Croatoans, he’s had to read up on laws, trends, and politics, in a way he never really had before. He fucking hates it.

Mitchell shakes his head in amusement. “Nah, bro. To me it sounds like you’re an idealist.”

Sasha scoffs. “I ain’t no fucking idealist, or I would be working for the other side. It ain’t fucking funny. You know why the A-list is called the A-list?”

Mitchell shakes his head, eyes bright and interested.

“When they decided to create the rank, they chose me before they named the rank. Some of the божја браћа think I’m soft hearted and idealistic, alright? So they call me Captain America as a joke. I’m their First Avenger,” Sasha says with dry dejected humour.

Mitchell fucking loses it. He thinks it’s hilarious. Fair enough. It’s not like Sasha can’t appreciate the irony of his title. And by telling the ‘joke’ himself it doesn’t sting even if he’s the butt of it. He taps ashes off his cig on the floor and gets to his feet, pockets the pack of cigarettes, collects his and Mitchell’s file, slapping them onto Mitchell’s chest to make him stop laughing and carry them.

Mitchell keeps sniggering, but takes the files and falls in line with him as he walks towards the door. “So what’s next for us?”

“I still have a couple of hours more to work. Then I need to catch some sleep. We head out tomorrow at 18:00.”

“You bunking up with the божја браћа?”

Sasha stifles a sigh. Addi and Doug is at Doug’s ‘real’ house. A luxury villa not far from the lab. It has fabulous guestrooms and he’s entitled to use one of them. Bendi’s with her first nanny for the duration of Addi’s stay, but he still has five interviews to conduct. A single nanny isn’t enough. After that he just wants to go to sleep. If he goes to Doug’s he might have to play entertainment for Addi. “I could stay there but I figured I’d find a motel room in the vicinity instead. Seeing me might prompt them to heap some more work on my shoulders.”

“Nah.” Mitchell drops the cigarette butt on the floor and stomps it out while digging up his keys and removing one from the chain. “Here. You can crash with me. You can take the guestroom, or use the masters if you think it benefits your rank better. I don’t give a crap, they’re the same size, just different colour schemes.”

Sasha takes the key. He knows the address already, having picked Mitchell up there twice. “Appreciated.”

They walk in silence for a while. Mitchell channelling good vibes and Sasha feeds right off them. “So… a heads up. The whole ‘under my command now’ crap you pull,” Mitchell says tentatively.

“Yes?” Sasha prompts.

“Word on the street is that you’ve got quite a following.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning there are Croatoans out there that buy what you sell. Not just the legend, but the leadership you offer when they work for you. It may become a problem,” Mitchell says and side eyes him curiously.

“It’s no problem.”

“You don’t see it?”

“It would only be a problem if I was stupid enough to forget my place. I’m not interested in power. I’ve devoted my life to the божја браћа, and I ain’t planning to change that. As long as I remain loyal, anyone under my command will be loyal too, you get what I’m sayin? So stow your treason talk. I’m immune to that shit.”

He’s even more certain Mitchell’s an IA now. The gentle probing masked as a warning serves as a hint towards it. Of course, it could just be general curiosity. Or gauging the possibility to recruit him for a mutiny. But he’s certain Mitchell’s too smart for the last option. 

“No offense meant. Just thought I should warn you,” Mitchell says, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Fair enough. I’ll inform the божја браћа of it. Feel free to keep me posted about what the elusive ‘they’ are saying. But not now. Now I’m too tired to deal with that shit.”

“Alright.” 

Silence descends again, their footsteps echoing in the corridors is the only sound. Sasha opts for the stairs rather than the elevator, wanting to keep himself in motion to keep the tiredness at bay. Mitchell stays with him, choosing the staircase too. On the ground floor Mitchell speaks up again. “So. Shane was really benched because of safety concerns, or…?”

Sasha stops, holding out his hand to stop Mitchell mid-stride. He turns to face his partner head on. “Look, Mitch. You want to know if I’m racist? I don’t fucking _care_ about colour, or whatever fuck. All I care about is what’s in here,” he says and taps a finger to Mitchell’s temple. “What can you bring to the game? What advantages and disadvantages do you have? I’m pragmatic, okay? Judging people on superficial bases is limiting. It serves us well that the _Porodica_ doesn’t, but the societies we move in do. When politicians like that Clinton broad talks about a bunch of impoverished street urchins as ‘super-predators’ it directs the attention their way, leaving us free to do whatever we fucking please. But it also puts our folks in danger if we don’t use our resources correctly. Shane gives us access to places and people who wouldn’t trust us two with a butter knife unsupervised. So yes. He’s benched because his colour jeopardises him and the mission at this time. And if we need to infiltrate a black community, I’m the one who’ll be benched. You get all that?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Now am I done explaining myself to you, Mitch?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Sasha turns on his heel and starts walking again. People can call him whateverfuck they want to. Faggot, homophobe, racist, nigger-lover, whatever and its counterpart. He’s heard it all by now. Sometimes, it was earned, sometimes not. It doesn’t change who he is or what he thinks. Besides, he’s changed his opinions on things a lot of times over the years. “You gonna keep asking me personal questions, do me a favour and call me Sasha when we’re alone.”

Mitchell comes to walk beside him again, smirks and answers “Yes, Sir.”

Sasha chuckles and shakes his head, giving Mitchell a friendly pat on the back.

* * *

Sasha sinks back against the wall, gliding down. He’s finally alone. Two more nannies/teachers chosen and moved to holding cells in the lab building to be interviewed and checked over by Doug. He’s currently back in the abandoned building that had been used to interview them. He came back to clean up and he’s fucking exhausted. Emotionally, more than bodily. He pulls his bag to him and digs up the folder in the bottom, taking out the two pictures Mikey drew for him. _Mikey_. A huge part of why he is exhausted to begin with. So often he uses the phrase ‘You overestimate my care for his/her wellbeing’. In this case he’s _under_ estimated his care for Mikey’s reaction to little boy Joe. Mikey had to see it go down. Addi had generously offered to show Sasha the video of it (politely declined along with vivid fantasies of hanging Addi by his own entrails) which meant that Mikey had to _fucking film it._

He’s feeling bad about what he's done and it's an unfamiliar feeling these days. His conscience hasn’t hounded him for ages. Worse is the worry. Mikey hallucinating and talking about darkness. He’s way out of his depth, trying to heal his little boy Mikey. That doesn't mean he ain't going to try. 

_I’m fucking in love with him, ain’t I? How the fuck did that happen?_

He’s fallen in love with women in his life. This wasn’t falling. He hasn’t _fallen_ for Mikey. It wasn’t that instant enchantment that induced madness and stopped the brain to function logically. Sure, he fell in love with little boy Mikey as a kid, but that was another kind of falling in love. He’d fallen in love with several of the boys. Not the same at all. That was some kind of parental instinct kicking in.

This was more like that annoying software update notification on your phone. You could leave it in the tray but if you left it there too long other apps that were set on auto update when you connected to wifi would start malfunctioning. Better install it and curse about the new interface, but learn to work with it. He hadn’t fallen in love with Michael. He’d walked in love with him, step by step by step, not really realising where he was heading. Denial is useless. Denial was voluntarily acting on information you knew to be wrong, then being surprised when a mission failed.

_And here I am. Longing for him. I fucking love the asshole. Body, mind, and broken fucking soul. A fucking shame that doesn’t make me less angry at him for the wrongs he’s done to me._

_It is what it is._

He strokes his fingers over the picture of the two of them sleeping together and digs his phone out of his pocket. He calls Mikey, looking at the picture while he waits. Mikey picks up after third ring. “Michael Filiusdei,” he says, sounding sharp and sober. 

“Hey, Cinderella. Miss me yet?”

“Unless you're standing outside of my door right now, I'm not going to admit to that, sweetheart,” Mikey answers faintly amused, not batting an eyelash anymore at the feminization. 

Sasha chuckles. “I wish. I've yet to sleep since I left you. I'm sitting in an abandoned house, looking at the picture of us sleeping, and I ain’t too proud to admit, that I wish I was with you right now. I miss you already.”

“You’re being awfully sweet,” Mikey says, smile carrying in his voice. 

“Yeah, I know. It’s a character flaw,” Sasha says wearily, feeling warm contentment when it makes Mikey laugh. “You holding up?”

“Relatively speaking, yes.”

“Good. Oh, my partner informed me today that apparently I'm too good of a leader, making people under me too loyal.”

“That’s hardly a bother, not as long as _you're_ loyal.”

Sasha smirks. “That’s what I said. And don't worry, Mikey. You will never have to doubt my loyalty to you.” The art of telling the truth while lying your ass off―he’s mastered it. A thought hits him. “A question about the IAs. Do they know that we A-listers are IAs too?”

“No. Nobody’s supposed to know who the others are. Why?”

“Just wondering. I’m looking into another Croatoan, I think he’s either rogue putting out feelers, or an IA probing me. Either that or he’s just stupid.”

Mikey chuckles. “They can’t all be as smart as you, sweetheart.”

“Aww. Now you’re stroking my ego. And I’m not even near enough to reward you for it,” Sasha purrs.

They talk for an hour about basically nothing, the clear cadence of Mikey’s voice, his stupid laughter at all of Sasha’s equally stupid jokes, it's soothing. Time that should have been used sleeping. But his worry about Mikey is diminished, which probably equals three hours of sleep if you count the stress factor. 

Afterwards he puts the pictures back and once again stows the folder in the bottom of his bag. He needs to find a good hiding place for the pictures. Maybe it's time for him to start buying property and houses under false names. But first he needs to sleep. He goes to his car and heads to Mitchell’s.

* * *

They stop for gas and Sasha goes in to pay. He gets some soda and snacks. While waiting in line he gets stuck on staring at a candy rack with PEZ dispensers. His mind decides to have a flashback of a crazy young man munching old dusty candy in a car in Russia. He buys five dispensers, with cherry refills, and two packs of Marlboro. When he comes back to the car and gets into the passenger seat he says “We’re taking a detour to Montana.”

“That’s quite far from our target,” Mitchell says.

“I said detour, not short cut.”

Mitchell sniggers and starts the car. “You got it, _Cap_.”

“Fuck sake, Mitch,” Sasha says with a scowl. By now he’s more or less only acting his pissiness over the nickname. It’s not that bad. In fact, as nicknames go, the shortened version, ‘Cap’, is a rather good one. It implied both deference and relaxed familiarity. He can deal. When it comes from the right persons at least.

* * *

“Follow them, but keep your distance or they’ll know they’re followed.”

“Got it.” 

The car rolls slowly forward at a safe distance, following the two persons walking down the street. It’s fucking ridiculous how his heart races, seeing _him_. Now more than ever. The reason is the direction they’re heading. He thinks it’s time he did some heavy research on Castiel because they're heading to a very familiar place, a place he had no reason to go to. Up until now he's just dropped by, found Castiel by the Garrison or the Winchesters’ apartment, then been on his way. 

“So who are they?”

Sasha ignores Mitchell, too intent on his own thoughts. They’re nearing Anna’s old house. A house that should have been impounded and sold to pay for her medical bills. That had been the plan. Castiel could of course have bought it from the new owners, it's just that something about this is off. He'd been so distracted by the fact that Castiel was here that he hadn’t thought much about _why_ he was here until now. He’d likely been informed that his sister was dead, but there'd been nothing to inherit, so why stay if he’d come to bury Anna?

“Oy, Sasha. Come on, why are we stalking Paris Hilton and her sidekick?”

His name along with the description jars Sasha out of his focus and makes him laugh. “It’s not so much stalking, as doing a brief security check.”

“They’re security hazards?”

“What? No!” He turns his head towards Mitchell and smirks in amusement. “Sometimes I forget that not all Croatoans knows every бог брат on sight. The guy you called Paris Hilton―the blonde one carrying the little dog with a dress? That’s Lucifer Sin-Božji, or Lucifer Morningstar as he calls himself nowadays.”

“You’re shitting me?”

“No. I stop by now and then to make sure he's safe. The other guy beside him is his head of security.”

“I'd heard he doesn’t use Croatoans.”

“He didn’t. He’s got very special requirements for Croatoans, wanting them to be able to play on his hockey team. Until recently we didn't have anyone skilled enough. That guy is a direct recruitment and got made not long ago.”

“If he just got made, how the fuck did he manage to land a position as head of security? He might be able to play hockey, but has he really the skills needed for the real job?”

“He has.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I recruited and trained him.”

“Oh.”

Not truths, yet not lies. Also, plausible explanations for why they're here and why Luci and Castiel are so close and familiar with each other. Bodyguard in reality, friend and teammate to the world. However, if Castiel hasn’t received further training since his time with Sasha, he might lack some important knowledge of the updates of the Croatoan system. Luci might not know either, since he’s been minding his own business. He'll have to log in and check on that when they leave twin towns. 

Lucifer and Castiel turn up the path to Anna’s house. Luci puts the tiny dog in a dress on the ground as soon as they’re in her yard. (Hers no longer, of course.)

_You couldn’t keep yourself from getting another dog, Luci? Good for you. I’ll add it to my list of ‘people’ to protect. Not a very tactical move though. But you don’t care. I suppose you wouldn’t. I suppose it was just a matter of time._

The dog runs around the house to the back yard, then comes running back with a toy in its mouth and sits down outside of the door. Castiel is the one to take up keys and unlock the door. Even from this distance Sasha can see that the inside looks different, before the two men and the dog disappears inside and the door is closed. Had Mitchell not been here with him, he’d stuck around to investigate.

He reaches into the glove compartment and takes one of the PEZ dispensers at random (a minion), fills it with cherry flavoured candies, puts on a baseball cap and pulls his hoodie up to make sure his hair is covered. “Wait in the car. I’ll be right back,” he orders Mitchell and gets out of the car. He walks to the house, puts the dispenser on the porch railing he once helped renovate and hurries back to the car. “Was I seen?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Good. Now we wait.”

“They could be there until tomorrow.”

“Not with a dog, they can’t.”

“Alright.”

The wait is hell. He feels impatient and his body aches from sitting still. He is nervous despite not really having cause to be. He'd gotten the impulse to do this when he saw the PEZ dispensers and he refuses to leave before he’s seen Castiel’s reaction. It only takes two hours before the door opens and the dog comes running out, now wearing a cammo hoodie instead of a dress. Castiel Is the next to come out. He spots the dispenser straight away, stops dead and stares at it. He looks around suspiciously before going up to it and taking it. Another look around, then he pulls back the minion head and takes out a candy. He sniffs it curiously, squints suspiciously at it for a beat, then pops it into his mouth. Sasha’s stomach does a flip, feeling like you ride an elevator down at a high speed. His heart drums faster.

“Seriously? Bro’s like ‘Oi. Strange candy showing up at random place for no reason. I better eat it’,” Mitchell says with a bemused frown. 

Sasha’s whole body’s fluttering excitedly. He fails miserably to hide his fondness when he replies. “Yeah. Nobody’s perfect.” His expression shows both fondness and amusement. 

Castiel pockets the dispenser just before Luci comes out, making no visible indication of informing Luci of the odd appearance of candy. Luci locks and they head away in the opposite direction of Sasha and Mitchell. Castiel keeps scanning the perimeter with that squint of his until they're out of sight. Sasha wonders if this will help undermine Castiel’s relationship with Dean, or just scare Castiel. Either reaction is good. Castiel _should_ be afraid of him. With what he did, he has no reason to believe Sasha would forgive him until he fucking groveled and accepted punishment. He decides then that he'll keep giving Cas gifts. Just to keep him on his toes. Let him wonder about it. About who’s doing it, and if he suspects (with that computer memory of his, he ought to suspect), why it’s done.

“So. Mission accomplished. Let’s go.”

Mitchell starts the car. “What was that anyway? Secret message? Code?”

“Need to know basis.”

“Got it.”

Mitchell doesn’t ask any more questions, letting Sasha mull over this impulse move, something he's pleased with. Right now, he's torn by longing. He longs for Mikey, Bendi, and Castiel. He wishes he had someone to talk to about all this, but it's lonely at the top, and when you are planning high treason you can’t exactly speak with your employer either. Either way, it's a start of how to approach the Castiel situation.  
“Can we make another detour?” Mitchell asks when they’re in Colorado. “Just a short one?”

“Sure. Why not? We've got time.”

Mitchell turns left at the next exit and drives to a small town. He parks outside of the graveyard by the local church. “Could you wait here? You can come, but I'd prefer if you didn't.”

“No problem. I'll stay put.”

Mitchell exits the car and jumps over the low stone wall surrounding the graveyard, then heads for a worn down, ill kept grave. He stops by it and looks down. Sasha sees his lips moving - he’s talking. Then another prolonged pause before Mitchell’s face twists into a grimace. He spits on the grave and turns to walk back towards the car. Sasha chuckles to himself.

“Family business?” Sasha asks when Mitchell gets back into the car. 

“You could say that,” Mitchell says. “I grew up in this crappy fucking town. Haven’t been here since I was eighteen. I promised my mother I'll come back for her. Only, the wretched bitch went and died before I got back. I had a lesson about loyalty I dearly wanted to teach her.”

“Ah, mommy's boy were you, Mitch?”

Mitchell sniggers and casts him an amused glance. “Mh. Obviously.”

“What did she do?”

“Called the cops on me and landed me in jail,” Mitchell says, face getting hard.

“Why? She caught you killing someone close to her?”

“No! That I might have been able to understand. Forgive? No. Your number one loyalty should be your son. But understand, yes. No, she called the cops on me for fucking shoplifting. Fucking bitch testified against me. ‘The right thing to do’, my ass! She said it'd help me discern right from wrong. Yeah right. What it _did_ teach me, was that if I was going to risk punishment, I should go big, making the gain much larger than the attached jail time.”

“In some places, that's impossible, if your crime is murder.”

“What? You opposed to the death penalty?”

“Only in correlation to me.”

Mitchell laughs, back to his more mellow mood. “Afraid of going to hell?”

“Hardly. But when you die, life as we know it is over one way or another.”

“You don’t believe in God, heaven and hell?”

“I didn’t, but since vampires exists, I'll assume gods and dragons and fucking everything exists. What about it? So there’s a God. Good for him. He ain’t meddling in our business, I ain’t meddling in his, you get what I’m sayin?”

Mitchell frowns in bemusement. “Just like that? You change your mind, just like that? Then why the hell aren't you in church praying your ass off to get forgiveness?”

“Firstly, I ain’t asking for forgiveness for anything I don’t regret. Ain’t that kind of hypocrite. Second off all, why the hell should I start worshipping just because I think he's real? I believe dogs are real too, but I ain’t fucking praying to them, you get what I’m sayin? It changes nothing. I am what I am whether there's a hell waiting for me or not. And come on. God is supposedly good because _he_ said so, despite all the evidence pointing at the opposite. _Otac_ makes the same claim to the божја браћа, yet they’ve suffered at his hand.”

“The evidence?”

“Yeah. You heard the expression ‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.’, right? _We_ both know how true _that_ is. If God is as good as all these religious nut jobs say he is, he’d do something. He supposedly has the power to lay us all to waste. But he doesn’t. So, the evidence points at either he gives zero fucks about us, or he’s enjoying the show, revelling in our misery like we enjoy a good movie. Either way he’s a fucking douchebag and does not deserve my worship.”

“Fuck me,” Mitchell says, taken aback.

“Not my type.”

“I didn’t mean literally, asshole. I just don’t get how calm you are about it. You just accept that God exists with a ‘meh’. It means there might be an afterlife and everything you’ve done might be pitted against you, ending you up in eternal torture.”

Sasha shrugs. “Until I meet someone who’s been there and can present me with hard reliable facts about what it’s like, I see no reason to worry. One thing at a time. It isn’t called _after_ -life for nothing. Besides, if you regret the stuff you did, just because you got caught doing it, rather than seeing anything wrong with it, then your soul’s corrupted anyway. Like you said about going to prison. Didn’t teach you shit about ‘right and wrong’, just about going big and not getting caught. You get what I’m sayin?”

Mitchell stares at the road with a troubled frown, thinking. “Fuck, but this makes me uncomfortable. Not only the God thing, but all of the supernatural stuff. It’s giving me the creeps.”

Sasha chuckles. “I’m not too happy about it either. But I figure, if there are monsters, I might as well be the more dangerous monster. It’s never about who’s the strongest, has the most weapons, or the best tools. It’s about problem solving skills and brains. Hell, look at us Croatoans! You and me, we chameleons generally live longer than the hammers, yet they’re better fighters. And you _really_ don’t want to mess with the hackers these days.”

Mitchell lightens up and sniggers. “No shit. I worked with a guy named Manny. We had a job that required we work with a hacker. And you should have seen the little guy we got. A pale and scrawny dude, fucking tiny. Had a stutter. It was like red to a bull for Manny, and he made life fucking hell for our wizkid. He’s called Bug by the way. You ever worked with him?” Sasha shakes his head and Mitchell goes on. “No. Well. When we’d finished the job, the trouble started for Manny. First off, his recently clean fake identity triggered the security alarm at the airport. Apparently he was flagged as wanted by Interpol. Then he found himself with access denied to every single one of his bank accounts, every fucking one of the IDs he used ended up wanted by the law over night. Then he finally kicked the bucket by an air crash caused by a mysterious computer malfunction.”

Sasha grins. “Aah. Croatoan office squabbles.” He shakes his head in amusement. “Really, I’d prefer to piss off someone I know’s gonna come for me gun in hand, than a hacker. You got no trouble from him?”

“Hell no. I still keep in touch. Talking to him is a bust because of his stutter, but texting, and chatting with him? Dude’s hilarious and fucking clever.”

Soon thereafter the conversation dies again and the silence descends. Mitchell seems to be lost in troubled thoughts. After about thirty minutes Sasha side eyes him, his lips quirking in an amused smirk, thinking his partner’s having an existential religious crisis. He doesn’t ask though. Some things you need to figure out by yourself―your stance on faith is one of them.

* * *

They’re at a shitty motel in Texas. They could choose to have a room each, yet neither of them have suggested it. It’s hard to tell if that's because Mitchell’s an IA or because he likes Sasha’s company. Sasha enjoys Mitchell’s unintrusive company better than solitude, so it’s all good. “So…” Sasha says, sitting on his bed studying maps and building blueprints. “I checked out a store that was possibly selling monster hunting gear.”

Mitchell’s sitting by the small table with his laptop. He looks up. “The halloween store, right?”

“Mhm. It didn’t pan out.”

“Did you expect it to?”

“Yes. But when I got there, it was trashed. The whole book section was burned to the ground, the rest was trashed by something with huge claws. Best guess is a werewolf at this point, based on the marks. Somebody had shot at it with silver bullets I found embedded in the wall. Found the owner dead in the cellar, so I’m assuming he did the shooting.”

“Huh. You found nothing of interest at all?”

“I did. The storeroom was filled with rock salt. I don’t know why, but for a store selling halloween crap, books about monsters, and new agey stuff, it seemed important and out of place enough to note.”

“In many cultures salt is seen as having magical properties. In Morocco it’s said to keep evil spirits at bay, and a piece of rock salt is worn as an amulet around the neck.”

“Evil spirits… what? Like ghosts?” Sasha asks.

“I don’t know. Maybe? Or demons? If those exists,” Mitchell answers and turns his chair to face Sasha. He drums his fingers against the tabletop. 

“Let’s assume they do. I very much doubt a ghost or a demon could be beaten by a single piece of rock salt. That’d make them easier to get rid of than a common garden snail,” Sasha says skeptically and refolds the blueprints to better focus on the topic at hand.

“No, but maybe with a storeroom full of it?”

“Fair enough. You think salt kills evil spirits?”

“As far as I’ve heard it wards them off. I haven’t heard anything about killing them. But the fuck do I know? At the time of hearing it I didn’t believe anything supernatural existed.” 

“We’ll figure it out. What were those houses you were talking about?” As far as Sasha knew, the two of them were equally stumped about how to start gathering intel on this topic. All they really had to go on was all the crap offered in myths, fairy tales and popular beliefs. Judging from his own reputation as being immortal, most were just bullshit. But there might be grains of truth on a lot of things. He’d have to google a lot of bullshit sites to figure out what info could be counted as vaguely credible.

“Oh, yeah. That. I got a couple of addresses to places where people have experienced sudden temperature drops, weird occurrences, or even mysterious deaths, just like you talked about. One of ‘em is in New Mexico. That’s not too far off. Want to check it out after we’ve completed our mission?”

“Sure.” Sasha chuckles. “We better bring salt,” he jokes. He goes serious. “On second thought, maybe we _should_ bring salt. We’ll never figure out what works on what if we don't test it out. If this place turns out to be the real deal, we have our opportunity.”

“Better safe than sorry.” Mitchell snorts in amusement and shakes his head. “I feel like a stupid teen planning to have a sleepover in a haunted house.”

“Apart from the age part, maybe you’re not wrong,” Sasha agrees with a grin. “Did you know there’s a WikiHow page on how to kill vampires?”

They trade information on their finds and deductions. It all feels vaguely surreal, but none of them approaches it less seriously because of it. Before going to bed, Sasha goes for a walk to call Mikey. It’s a fucking bother to be stuck with this longing, especially when he can’t speak openly with Mikey in front of Mitchell. Tonight Mikey sounds different. More arrogant, less accepting of endearments, more ‘бог брат’. No less happy about getting the call though. The cadence of his voice tonight, slightly more chipper, sentences spoken with an edge of finality rather than flowing together, pitch a wee bit deeper, small differences as easily picked up upon as it is to hear if somebody has had a drink or two. All these things tells Sasha he isn’t talking to his ‘little boy Mikey’ but with the mad part of Michael, that sees no limits and _knows_ he can do whateverfuck he wants. To be honest, that part of Michael scares Sasha a bit. But more so, it currently makes jealousy boil inside of him. If Mikey’s in that state it probably means that somebody is bound to be carved up, (which he doesn’t feel jealous about) and then afterwards, Mikey’s going to be gunning for sex. Now _that’s_ a problem. He reminds himself that Mikey’s made no promises, and until he does, Sasha won’t either. But it doesn’t stop Sasha from wanting to be there and rip the throat out of anyone laying a hand on Mikey without Sasha’s permission. Being in love sucks.

* * *

He can’t fucking sleep properly. There are too many thoughts in his head and they won’t shut down. It’s not his conscience hounding him now, it’s too many problems to solve at once. He feels like Strider, going from being a lone ranger to being crowned a king. He’d held up under the pressure in South America, but he’s beginning to feel it now. Going from being first and foremost a field operative, to being a leader first and foremost is quite a change. Especially since every project he’s been involved with since his promotion, has remained on his table to some degree. He’s good at delegating, but those who remain to oversee the projects depend on him checking in on them. Most things run smoothly. 

But Mitchell’s words the other day chafe like a pebble in his shoe. It bothers him that he’s seen like some kind of idealist. When the божја браћа call him that, it’s one thing. Their upbringing is so twisted, so skewed, that compared to them, he _is_ one. But when other Croatoans call him that, it makes him uncomfortable. 

So what if he has to keep up with politics in a way he never had to before? So what if he thinks that it’s fucked up that governments, who represent the law, treat their people like shit? It’s what created _him_ to begin with. If his family hadn’t lived in misery, with no way to get out of it due to an oppressive regime, then he most likely wouldn’t have turned to the ‘dark’ side. He’s no fucking white knight just because he can see things that leads to tribulation. Just because he doesn’t treat his men like shit, doesn’t make him some kind of saint. They’re tools. You keep your guns clean so they don’t backfire, keep the blades sharp, change oil on the car and check the brakes. Same with the men. You don’t send a black man in on a key mission in a mostly white area in Mississippi. He knows the problems that comes with standing out. He’s been sent on missions in Africa where both his height and skin made him stand out like a palm tree on Antarctica. It was as smart as using a hammer and screw, instead of a nail. You _could_ hammer it in, but using a nail is smarter.

He doesn’t think he’s evil, but he sure as hell isn’t good. He enjoys being feared, enjoys not giving a shit about the framework of the law. His empathy is minimal and reserved for a few. He admires that quality in others, sure. But he isn’t like that. He’s selfish. He’s chosen this path in life, to put himself first. If people around him could fucking acknowledge that, it’d be great, thank you very much! He tried to treat people with respect, whether he respected them or not. That was a tactical fucking move. In case of his men, (and, yes they were _his_ , the moment they were placed under his command, fuck anyone who claimed otherwise) it staved off the risk of getting a ‘stray’ bullet in the back, in case of the general public, it made them more inclined to bend to his will. It peeves him when he’s ascribed qualities he doesn’t have.

Hearing that he has a following is as tempting as disconcerting. Tempting, since he _is_ rogue, and people loyal to him rather than the _Porodica_ would come in real fucking handy the moment the war began. But trying to recruit people to his cause was as stupid as it was doomed to fail. He aimed to destroy the Sin-Božji from within, with no purpose except vengeance and punishment. He’s not interested in taking over or gaining power. In fact, it’s in his interest that ‘his’ boys remain as powerful as they wish to be. The _croats_ that’d turn their backs on the Sin-Božji still had his full contempt. Anyone that would join his cause would end up disappointed once they realised that there was no personal gain for them. It’d probably be a smart move to inform at least three or four more божја браћа about his alleged ‘following’ to keep him from getting blamed for it.

And then there’s Mikey. It’s a fucking problem, since he isn’t stationed with Mikey. He wants to be. No. He wants to come home to Mikey after a day’s work. He doesn’t mind being separated as such, but he wished he could spend most his nights with the man at least. Do odd jobs together. Keep an eye on Mikey’s health. He worries.

“Can’t sleep, huh?” Mitchell asks from the other bed in the darkness.

“No. Did I wake you up?”

“Nah. I’m stuck thinking about God, and what happens after you die. That’s your fault by the way, so thanks for that.”

Sasha chuckles. “Always happy to help.”

“Sure you are,” Mitchell mutters, but there’s amusement carrying over in his voice.

“Say… I’ve got this friend― “

Mitchell bursts out laughing.

“ _What_?” Sasha asks testily when Mitchell starts collecting himself.

“Oh, come on. You lie awake thinking and then you hit me with a ‘I’m asking for a friend’ question? _Bro_.”

Sasha chuckles. “Oh. Yeah, that’s funny. No, long story short. I’ve got this friend, and I want her to ride me like a fucking cowgirl, you get what I’m saying? But she’s been sexually abused as a child and she’s afraid that she’ll trigger and accidentally stab me to death if we tried to go further than third base.” Sasha rolls his eyes and impatiently waits when Mitchell practically dies laughing.

“Accidentally stab you! Fucking hell, what kind of wildcats do you mate with??” 

“Armed, dangerous, and damaged ones,” Sasha deadpans dryly.

“I can tell. Sorry. Go on,” Mitchell says, still chuckling.

“How would you go about doing it? Get her over the bump so to speak? I want her to want it, not just allow me.”

“Ouch. Hard nut to crack. When you say damaged, you mean like depressed, or…?”

Sasha thinks about it, trying to define Mikey’s problems. He’s calling Mikey a girl, to protect Mikey’s identity, not because he’s somehow ashamed to be boning a man. “I would presume so. She’s the internalising type, concealing outward. Smiles a lot, charming, outgoing. She’s protective and puts others before herself. She’s very sexual and physical. Her mood can switch from one second to another. She gets a bit maniacal at times. A bit Dr.Jekyll and Mr.Hyde if you get what I’m saying? I believe she hallucinates, but she hasn’t confirmed it. She cuts herself or does drugs to quote, keep demons at bay, unquote. And sometimes she’s not sure if things we’ve said or done was real or not. Touch seems to ground her though. Any time she starts getting that crazed or stressed out gleam in her eyes it will go away if I touch her.”

Sasha hears Mitchell sit up in bed. It’s too dark to see him though. “Brother, I’m torn between wanting to laugh hysterically and being scared for you,” Mitchell says seriously. “Fucking run for the hills from that one. That’s not ‘damaged’. That chick has some severe mental illness. I’m warning you, Sasha. Play with her and you’ll wake up by her trying to slit your throat in your sleep.”

Sasha strains not to burst out laughing. He’s fighting laughter so hard that Mitchell misinterprets his silence.

“I’m serious, Sasha.”

“Oh, I know. Just,... been there, done that already.” Sasha’s voice is laced with amusement.

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“And you’re still sticking around?”

“That’s what friends are for.”

Mitchell is quiet for a while. “Brother, that transcends friendship.” He snorts. It’s hard to tell if it’s in amusement or skepticism. 

“Fair enough. My interest in her has recently grown beyond just friendship. But I stuck around even before that, despite random assassination attempts. She didn’t want me dead. Not really. And let’s face it, with the people I’m surrounded by, my choices for friendship doesn’t include people who aren’t insane to some level, if you get what I’m sayin?”

“Hey, I’ve started thinking of us as friends, and I’m not mad, bro,” Mitchell says.

Sasha sniggers. “I like you, Mitch. But I’d say that means you’re mad in one way or another, or I wouldn’t enjoy your company half as much. I just haven’t figured out wherein your insanity lies yet.”

Mitchell laughs. Sasha likes that about him, his easy laugh and positive outlook at things. The only thing he doesn’t like, is that he’s unsure if it’s an act to stay in Sasha’s good graces, or if it’s really Mitchell. “Alright. I’ll buy that. So back to your ladyfriend. Without having met her, I can’t say how I’d go about coaxing her past her triggers. You can’t just leave it be?”

“I could. But I’m not gonna. If nothing else it’d spite her brother who fucked her up in the first place. She’s still under his fucking thumb to a degree, and I swear I’m gonna make the fucker suffer for it.”

“How about taking her to a therapist?”

It’s Sasha’s turn to laugh. “Not an option,” he gets out and keeps sniggering. The thought of trying to get Michael to a therapist is absurd. Not to mention that said therapist would have a significantly shortened life span if he did.

“Alright. You said touch is grounding for her? Just your touch, or anybody’s?”

“Anybody’s, more or less,” Sasha admits grudgingly. 

“Okay. I hate to recommend this, but get her a pet. A cat perhaps? Cats are cuddly assholes. If she’s too mad to take care of it, it’ll die, which is a tragedy, but it might be good for her.”

“A tragedy, huh?”

“I fucking love cats, alright? Lost my own cat, Yippi, four months ago. Still haven’t recovered enough to get a new one. If your lady friend isn’t the type to torture animals, it could be an option. Pets have a way to get through to even the stoniest of hearts, okay?” Mitchell sounds defensive about it.

“I know. ...you named your cat _Yippi_?”

“Nah. His real name was Yippi-ka-yay Motherfucker.”

Sasha chuckles. “Fair enough.” He sobers up his tone. “Sorry for your loss.”

“You being serious, or mocking me now?”

“Serious. I’ve never been a pet owner, but I’ve formed friendships with a couple of stray cats and dogs during my time. And a rat, come to think of it. So what got Yippi? Run over by a car, or what?”

“Nah, man. He was an indoor cat. He died of old age a couple of days before he would have turned twenty two.”

“I’m no expert, but that’s a respectable age for a cat, ain’t it?”

“It is. I was lucky. Still, I bawled like a fucking girl when he died.”

“There’s no shame in that.”

“Mh… You befriended a _rat_?”

“Got caught on a mission. Was locked up in a dank, dark, fucking hole. Barely fed and brought up only to be tortured. My only company was a rat living in the cellar. Shared my food with it. It kept me sane until I was rescued. Although, now that we’re on the topic, I recall a stray dog I befriended while stationed in former Yugoslavia. And now when I think back on it, it may edge in on that supernatural crap we’re dealing with.”

“Oh yeah? How so?”

“So my partner got blown to pieces on the second day, leaving me alone on the mission. I’m not too keen on total isolation, if you get what I’m sayin? So when this mongrel came around, I offered to share my food with it to get it to stick around.”

“Uh-huh?” Mitchell says, encouraging him to go on.

“I’ve been around a lot of smart dogs, alright? When I was stationed at the Heart back in ‘98 there were thirteen living dogs of different breeds and ages. You know about the божја браћа dogs, right?”

“I do.”

“They’re smart, brave, working dogs. Gets a fuckton of training. None of them could measure up to the intelligence of Dragan. You know how dog owners claim their dogs understand them? In his case I’m sure it’s 100% true.”

“You named your dog _Dragon_?” Mitchell says, playfully mimicking Sasha’s own reaction to hearing his cat’s name.

“No, Dra _gan_. Means precious, or beloved. That’s not the point of the matter here. And I never viewed him as mine to own. He was a friend, you get what I’m sayin?”

“Yeah. In case of Yippi, I’d say _he_ owned me, not the other way around,” Mitchell says with warmth in his voice.

Sasha smiles into the darkness. “Mhm. I talked to Dragan. Chatted away like I would with a person, anything to keep myself sane. And he’d listen. But then he started disappearing and coming back with stuff I’d mentioned needing. Or he’d lead me to places he’d found that would help solve problems I’d mentioned. And I ain’t talking bout fucking ‘fetch the rope’ things. More like, ‘how the fuck do they manage to sneak past spot X unseen?’. Dragan would come to me, sit with his back to me, looking back at me until I followed. If I stopped following he’d repeat the process until I came. Then he’d lead me to a secret entrance to tunnels or whateverfuck. We’re talking scary levels of intelligence. Tracking, lookout, he did it fucking all. At the time I hadn’t been around as many well trained dogs before, and I thought he was just an old army dog or something. The fuck did I know what dogs could and couldn’t do? Now I’m not so sure. The dog was probably a better partner than my original partner would have been.”

“Why didn’t you keep him? He got killed?”

“I don’t think so. Here’s where it gets a bit weird for me…”

“Okay?”

“At the end of my mission I was going to be picked up by helicopter. I’d already decided not to leave Dragan behind. Loyalty is rewarded with loyalty, you feel me? But the town we were in got hit by an attack. The ground fucking exploded under us and we both fell into a deep hole. A cellar or something. I was wounded. There was no way out but up. A steel bar had fallen across the opening and I was lucky enough to have been carrying my equipment. So I managed to throw a rope over it. I couldn’t climb a rope and carry him at the same time. Fuck, I could barely climb at all with my injuries. But I promised him to come back for him and got myself up.”

Sasha pauses and thinks back on the situation. He’d felt bad about leaving the dog behind while grenades were exploding all over. But his own life came first, and it’d be of no help to any of them if he died.

“I’m sure there could be a perfectly logical explanation for it, but…. Once I came back, he was gone. The only way out was a fucking rope hanging in the middle of a hole, no walls to support oneself on. Dogs can’t climb ropes. Somebody could have climbed down and carried him up, by all means… but I was gone for twenty minutes tops before I came back with backup. And who the fuck would climb down into a hole, under heavy fire, to rescue a mongrel?”

“So you’re suggesting he grew hands and climbed up himself?”

“It’s possible, isn’t it?”

Mitchell is quiet for a long time before he tentatively speaks up again. “Like… he was a shapeshifter or something like that?”

It’s Sasha’s time to think. He hadn’t thought about Dragan in these terms before. The memory is from the early 90s. When they’d discussed possible supernatural experiences before, only the scary and unsettling had come to mind, not the positive ones. But Dragan being some kind of shapeshifter makes so much more sense than him being some kind of super smart dog―a freak of nature. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting. That would explain fucking everything.”

His urge to kill anything supernatural on sight is shot to pieces by this revelation. Dragan had been a friend, dog or not. Should he ever befriend another dog he suspected to be a shapeshifter he’d buy him or her clothes and encourage them to shift to human(-ish?) form while out of public eye. The benefits of such friendship would be enormous. Just thinking of Dragan coming home from one of his disappearing acts, shifting to humanoid form, and giving a formal report of his findings, makes Sasha more than a little excited. Once again he adjusts his world view, to thinking of creatures as individuals, rather than monsters. He still wants to know how to kill every last _type_ of them, but perhaps not every last individual. 

“Fuck me, Sasha. I’m sorry I met you. You keep messing with how I see the world.”

“Just because you don’t know something exists, doesn’t mean it isn’t there. At least now we can strategise and prepare for what to do when we run into them.”

“You’re right. It just makes me uncomfortable.”

“Same.”

Another stretch of silence, and then Mitchell says “Did you… did you pet Dragan? Like, scratched his belly and stuff?”

Sasha’s mind grinds to a halt for a beat before he bursts out laughing. “Hell, yeah I did. I see where your mind is going, fucking pervert.”

“Hey! I’m just sayin, you’ve petted a grown man on the belly without knowing it. That’s all,” Mitchell sniggers.

Sasha fucking giggles. He thinks for a beat. “He liked it, or he wouldn’t have let me. And I’d do it again, if I ever came in the same situation, as long as he or she was in their canine form.”

“Would you fuck a shapeshifter?”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Mitch. Yes I would. But only in their human form. Assuming they look fully human and not like some kind of dog-human hybrid,” Sasha answers, still chuckling. This stupid topic is putting his anxiety to rest.

Mitchell chuckles. “I don’t know if I would be able to differentiate that way.”

“What? You’d fuck the dog too?” Sasha teases.

“ _No!_ God no!” Mitchell laughs. “Don’t be an ass. I’m not sure I’d be comfortable petting a dog, knowing it could turn into a man.”

“You’d get over it,” Sasha reassures. “So. You can’t sleep because you’re having a religious crisis. What are you planning to do about it?”

“How do you mean?”

“You planning to run off and join a convent? Become a proper nun and redeem yourself of all your sins?”

Mitchell chuckles. “A little late for that, don’t you think?”

“I do, but I’m not the one lying awake thinking about it.”

“True. You’re really not bugged out about what happens after you die?”

“No. We’ll find out when we get there. If there is an after life of any kind, we’re not allowed to know about it or bring anything with us. Hence, we can’t prepare for it.” Sasha sniggers. “Maybe that’s why I’m still here. I refused to leave my body when I died.” He smirks at the thought, reaches out to his nightstand, and fumbles around until he finds his cigarettes. He takes one out and lights it with the lighter he’d had stuffed into the pack.

“That shit is true? You have died?” Mitchell asks. Sasha hears him fumble around too, then an orange glow lights up his face as Mitchell lights his cigarette. It’s a non-smoking motel, but they disabled the smoke detector and made ashtrays out of glasses earlier. They’re currently acting as front runners for the apocalyptic horseman pestilence. They can hardly be expected to follow rules.

Sasha still gets the nicotine rush with each cigarette, and he tries to keep the number of cigarettes he smokes down. He’s been a smoker for short periods now and then in his life, when he’s been undercover and it was the practical choice to gain the trust of the mark. He smoked as a teen too. But now he’s doing it to stave of that feeling of suction in his midsection that screams out for drugs. Any drugs. Mitchell is sitting cross legged in his bed, peering curiously at him in the darkness. When the lighter goes out, he can barely see him from the cherry of his cigarette. Sasha sits himself up against the headboard to answer. “A couple of times. That’s what earned me the nickname.”

“I thought that was bullshit. ...what’s it like?”

“Dying?”

“Being dead.”

Sasha blows out smoke slowly. “I have no memories of it. The only thing I recall is panic from losing conscious. Then, nothing. And waking up dazed and confused.”

“How’d you survive?”

“People around me being set on not losing me. CPR, medical treatment available when I needed it. Possibly an angry refusal to let go of life? Hard to tell, since I was dead at the time,” Sasha jokes with a snigger.

Mitchell lets out a bemused chuckle and takes a drag of his cigarette. The inhale makes the cherry glow bright and lights up his face, revealing a thoughtful expression. Sasha thinks that maybe he should be more unsettled by the thought of an afterlife and the possibility of a God, but he isn’t. It feels like reading a book and halfway through suddenly start worrying about if they’ll mess it up if they ever did a movie out of it in a distant future. He voices the thought, which makes Mitchell laugh. “You know, Sasha. That’s an oddly reassuring way to think of it. Thank you,” Mitchell says and drops his cigarette in the waterglass beside his bed. 

“Anytime, Mitch,” Sasha answers, feeling slightly fond. He feels reassured by the conversation too. Mitch moves around on his bed and bids Sasha a good night. Sasha remains smoking a bit longer, long enough for Mitchell’s breathing to even out and go into half snores. Sasha thinks about the cat idea. It might go to shit. Perhaps the poor critter will end up carved to bits. Sasha doesn’t think so. Mikey may be good at hiding feelings, but he thinks Mikey loved his dog as much as Luci did, only put duty first. Mikey’s dobermann had died at the age of six, the same year they lost Mal. The dog had taken several bullets to the chest, saving Mikey’s life. A dog would suffer more if Mikey failed to take care of it, since it needed to be walked to handle its bathroom needs. A cat had a litter box. Worst case, Peters could be asked to make sure it got fed and that the box was emptied, if Mikey couldn’t handle it. But if he could… 

Sasha puts out his cigarette and lies down. He’s asleep within minutes. He dreams of cats and colourful fishes. When he wakes up, he has a plan.

* * *


	13. Rolling with the Punches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things rarely go exactly as planned. The important thing is to roll with it. Sasha's good at that. Paranoia has a tight grip on him though...

* * *

**2014**

* * *

Summer

“FREEZE! PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!”

_Great. Just what I needed. **FUCK!**_

Sasha’s on his knees just by the pool of purified water, having gotten the last package out of his bag.

Another voice joins the first. “Sir! Put your hands over your head and be still, or we will open fire!”

_Fucking fantastic. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Shit, I hope Mitch got away safely._

He hasn’t heard any gunfire, so that’s a relief. There’s still a risk that Mitchell has been caught down by the pools in the left wing of this facility. It would be a fucking catastrophe if he hasn’t dropped his packages yet. 

He lets go of the hard white square. It falls into the water as he slowly puts his hands up, holding his palms flat, fingers spread wide, so the cops (or guards?) can see he’s unarmed. (Hah!) The packages have changed since the start of the project. There had been―according to Doug―a problem keeping the host of the virus alive for more than six hours out of water. It’s been resolved now, with these new packages. They looked like large sugar lumps, the size of a brick, but the moment they hit the water a chemical reaction turned them into jelly that dissolved within less than a minute. It looked interesting, since the moment the hard white substance came in contact with water it turned transparent and disappeared before your eyes. Now there was only him there to prove something was wrong. Even if the cops/guards _had_ seen something fall into the water from their vantage point behind him, there was nothing big white to be seen anymore. Hopefully, they’d think they’d imagined it.

He twists his head a little bit to peek over his shoulder. Cops. Two of them. Both with guns trained on him and looking mightily unfriendly. They shouldn’t be here. The security cameras are set on a loop. The only anomaly they’ve seen was the security guard taking a few too many bathroom breaks.

One of the cops approaches him. “Keep still or you will be shot.”

_Fucking cowboy._

Sasha remains sitting down, hands in the air. He keeps himself still and unresisting. A handcuff is placed around one wrist and his arm is harshly wrenched down, the other arm yanked down behind his back too. Roughly. The second cuff is secured too tightly, which sucks.

“You’re under arrest, asshole.”

_You don’t say? And for what exactly? Care to outline my crime?_

He bites his tongue not to snark at the cop. The man is under thirty and high strung. _Afraid_. He’d preferred to have been arrested by an old dog. Who would have remembered to tell him for what he’s being arrested for, (breaking and entering at the very least) and read him the Miranda warning, handling him with lesser roughness based on his calm cooperation, not a spazzed out puppy like this fucker is. Who will be further spazzed out right... about... now.

The cop starts patting him down and instantly finds his guns. Sasha shuts down his brain and withdraws inward. His weapons are confiscated. He’s being asked questions about what he’s doing there, takes a punch to his face when he fails to answer. (Which causes a disagreement between the two cops, since one of them is of the opinion that you don’t hit unresisting suspects that have been placed under arrest. Fair enough.) He’s asked about his identity since he isn’t wearing any ID. He’s asked a lot of questions but keeps his mouth firmly shut. He complies to any other orders. He names the arresting officers Spaz and Subby in his mind. When he’s taken outside backup is arriving. Another pair of cops. Here there’s one he respects. A man his own age. Higher ranking, by the way the others listen. It takes one look from the both of them for the officer to know he isn’t going to be talking and for him to know that this is a cop who’s been around the block. Sasha names this guy Old Dog in his head.

He’s placed in the back of a cherry topper and gets to wait there forever. He’s taken down the station, where his fingerprints come out clean after going through the regular procedures of an arrest. His belongings are confiscated, his fingerprints and picture taken. He resists any attempt to get him to talk. He’s placed in an interrogation room. Spaz is the first to have a go with him. Spaz tries to intimidate him. Threatening him with more jail time for interfering with an investigation, and all kinds of bullshit. Spaz is clearly the one intimidated. A chihuahua barking. No. Chihuahuas are often as not brave fuckers, that would back up their bark with bites. Spaz is the angry, fearful type, that wouldn’t hesitate beating up a defenseless man, his wife, a child, if he could get away with it―but would tuck tail between his legs if faced by an equal or stronger opponent. There are enough of those working for the _Porodica_. Sasha hates the type. Spaz is going to have a little accident, he decides.

Sasha is yet to say a single word. He keeps his face blank and just watches Spaz impassively. He worries about Mitch. Did he get away? Did he complete the mission? Is he hurt? Those thoughts circulate in his brain while Spaz does a lousy job of getting him to talk.

Spaz goes away and he’s left in the room for another long stretch of time. He's been under arrest for many hours now and is fucking tired. His recent problems with sleeping isn't helping. He keeps still and passive. If they think waiting will make him nervous or impatient, they’ve got another thing coming for them. 

Old Dog is the next to enter.

“Hi. I’m Sergeant Frederick Mosby,” he introduces himself and holds up his police ID so Sasha can see. “You’ve been placed under arrest for breaking and entering a government facility, possession and carrying of illegal weapons, and suspected of terrorist activity. I’m here to ask you a couple of questions, and it would be in your best interest to cooperate,” Mosby says neutrally. There’s none of Spaz’s posturing. “Would you want some coffee before we begin?”

“That would be nice,” Sasha answers. He doesn’t care either way, he’s more curious if he’s going to get it.

“Sugar? Cream?”

Sasha shakes his head. 

“Alright.” Mosby goes to the door and knocks on it. It opens. He orders a cop to go fetch a cup of coffee and beckons two others to assist him to uncuff Sasha and re-cuff his hands in front of him. Mosby chooses to uncuff the hand that is pale and cold, that Spaz had secured too tightly. Sasha grants him a ‘Thank you, Sir’ for that, and starts opening and closing his hand to work back circulation into it. Seated again, the coffee arrives in a little paper mug. He takes it, quirks a little smile, blows on it, and takes a sip. It tastes like shit, like it’s sat on a burner for hours. Which, granted, it probably has. He guesses it’s the same shit that the cops themselves are forced to drink. Nevertheless he appreciates it. He’s been held for many hours now. It’s only a matter of time before he’ll be forced to request a bathroom break that’ll put him them in a position where they have leverage. Not that’ll help. He’d never trade information in return for intact pride. He takes more pride in keeping his mouth shut no matter what, than he does in not soiling himself. But then again, these are cops. They’re not as likely to go for that level of humiliation.

The cops leave the room, leaving him alone with Mosby again. Sasha’s sure they’re still watching through the mirror glass in the wall opposite, or through monitors feeding from the camera sitting under the ceiling. He studies the sergeant. Above medium height, broad shoulders, fairly fit despite extra pounds added by eating or drinking well. Greying and balding, sharp, tired brown eyes that has seen too much. Wedding ring with enough scratches to show he’s been wearing it for years, rough hands and yellowing nails that declared him a regular smoker. Some scars on both hands and face that showed him to have had encountered violence during his days. He’s got a calm, authoritative aura. Mostly he just seems done with all this bullshit. Sasha wonders how many times a day he tells himself ‘I’m too old for this shit’. The thought makes him quirk his lips in a miniscule smirk. He likes this guy. “So… Is Spaz your nephew or something?” Sasha asks and sips his coffee.

“Spaz?” Mosby asks and arches an unamused eyebrow.

“The jacked up monkey that arrested me, bypassing all rules of conduct. You seem competent. I figure you wouldn’t put up with having your men act that unprofessional unless you have to, for some reason,” Sasha clarifies, leaning back in his chair and studying Mosby over the rim of his cup.

Mosby could have chosen to defend Spaz, or shut Sasha down by refusing to answer, saying something like ‘I ask the questions here’. Instead he says “Not my nephew,” in a flat voice. There’s a tiny, tiny inflection in the sentence, that may have gone unnoticed by someone listening less actively. What Sasha hears is ‘Not _my_ nephew’. It could be interpreted as ‘stow your crap’ with the flatness of the voice, but Sasha’s pretty sure he’s being told that Spaz is _somebody’s_ nephew or relative. Somebody higher ranking, and Mosby is tired of Spaz’s shit. Engaging in irrelevant conversation could be stupid for both of them, but Mosby is doing it to try to build rapport between them. The more Sasha talks, the more likely it is that he gives away something he shouldn’t. Or would be if he was a goddam amateur.

“Fair enough,” Sasha says.

“Let's get started. What were you doing in the water plant?”

Sasha remains quiet, just looking at Mosby.

“Who are you? What’s your name?”

Sasha keeps quiet, face blank. Mosby isn’t really expecting him to answer. He can see that in his face. Mosby has deducted that Sasha is a professional. They probably have the same seen-to-much-no-longer-fazed look in their eyes.

“You were caught red handed with an empty bag by a pool at a government owned water facility that supplies water to this city. You’re suspected of having, or having planned to commit an act of terrorism, which if you’re convicted for this felony it may result in incarceration for forty to a hundred years. It is a very serious crime. It serves your own interest to talk to us, to explain to us what you were really doing there. This would be so much easier if you did.” Mosby phrases it in a way that―along with his body language―is supposed to convince Sasha that it would make things easier for _him_.

Sasha feels like laughing. Instead he allows his amusement to show, smirks broadly and says “It would, wouldn’t it?” and tops it off with a wink, telling Mosby he knows very well that the only ones for whom it would be easier, is them, the police.

Oh, yeah. Mosby is so done with fucking everything. Sasha likes him.

“Look, we can keep you―“

“You’ve got any plans on giving me the Miranda warning anytime soon? And let me get in contact with my lawyer?” Sasha interrupts with a friendly tone. “It would be a shame if any evidence and statements turn out to be inadmissible because you’re violating my Miranda rights.”

_You didn’t know?_

Based on Mosby’s body language, he didn’t.

“I was informed you’d waived your right to an attorney when the offer was made.”

Sasha bends his head down to the side and raises his eyebrows in a _Seriously? And you believed that?_ -expression.

Mosby sighs tiredly and starts to recite the Miranda warning. Sasha drinks the last of his coffee and puts the paper cup on the table, waiting for him to finish. When that’s done Mosby says “I take it you want to contact a lawyer?”

Sasha gives him a tightlipped smile and a nod.

Before Mosby can reply there’s a knock and the door is opened by a young harried looking female officer. “Sergeant! The feds are here, and they’re _pissed_!”

Mosby gets to his feet and goes to the door. “Why?”

“Apparently we ruined one and a half years of work for them and booked one of their undercover guys at the water plant earlier tonight,” Sasha hears the woman say as the door is closing. He withholds a snigger. So Mitchell got away clean and he won’t have to phone anyone to trigger the Croatoan system.

_That’s my man. Feds are we? That’s a good reason to put a lid on this. I like it._

He’s always liked playing at being law enforcement. Especially those times he’d been forced to actually uphold the law to not break cover. There was a sweet irony to it.

Mosby comes back into the room, looking more fed up than ever. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, agent Porter,” he says and uncuffs Sasha. “We had no idea.”

“No hard feelings, Sergeant Mosby,” Sasha says and massages his wrists.

Spaz comes into the room with Sasha’s things, weapons included. “You could’ve just told us.”

“Yes, because that’s exactly how working undercover works. You tell people,” Sasha deadpans dryly. He sees Mosby’s lips twitch in a smirk while Spaz’s lips twists into a sour expression. Mosby is no fan of Spaz’s.

Sasha rifles through his stuff, pocketing belongings and… his head snaps up, pinning Spaz with a glare of murder. “Where’s my necklace?”

“There was no necklace,” Spaz says defensively and squares himself. Once again, Sasha feels the fear coming off of him.

“There was a necklace with an angel pendant that you took off me when you booked me at the station. You better go back and check, because if you’ve lost it, I’ll make sure everybody that was involved in my arrest, loses their job.”

“Hey, there was no necklace, I said!”

Sasha is seeing fucking red, and it must be plain on his face because Spaz’s eyes widen and he takes a step back.

“Go check if you can find it, Jeff. And don’t come back until you do,” Mosby commands.

Spaz gives Sasha a hateful look before he disappears.

“So whose nephew is he?” Sasha asks Mosby, visibly reining in his temper (but not inwardly).

“Commissioner’s son.”

“Figures. I’d like to file an official complaint about several cases of misconduct on his behalf, including police brutality,” Sasha says and dons his holster and guns..

“Lovely. Paperwork,” Mosby answers tiredly and drags a hand over his face while sitting down.

“If it makes you feel any better, this whole bust generated tons of paperwork for me too,” Sasha lies.

“It doesn’t. Let’s get it over with…”

They’re interrupted once while Mosby takes his statement. A female officer comes to hand Sasha the necklace that Spaz had ‘found’, but couldn’t bring back himself because he ‘had to go to the bathroom’. Fucking coward. Sasha hangs it around his neck, touches his lips to the pendant and to the ring quickly as a reassurance. He’s already decided that officer Jeff ‘Spaz’ Mulligan has three hellish months left to live. He’ll put a couple of Croatoans on it, allowing them to be creative, use pawns as they please, and let them have a hacker. Spaz will be haunted by bad luck and then kick the bucket.

He offers his hand to Mosby for a handshake. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Don’t mention it,” Mosby says and shakes his hand, looking mightily tired.

Sasha sighs. “Maybe it’s a good thing my cover got blown. I’m getting too old for this shit.”

“Tell me about it. You get to my age in the business, you realise black and blue is just different shades of dark,” Mosby says gloomily.

Sasha quirks a smile. “I hear you. Take care of yourself, Mosby,” he says and gives the sergeant a friendly pat on the shoulder. Had he been stationed somewhere in the vicinity, Sasha would have cultivated a ‘friendship’ with the man. Having cops under your thumb is useful. 

Out in the precinct he finds Mitchell, Shane, and Pærsson, all snazzed up in suits and wearing scowls. The cops close to them casts them side eyed glances, trying not to direct attention to themselves. Shane is currently delivering a public lecture to an older man in a suit, possibly the commissioner. Mitchell spots Sasha first, leaves the group and walks up to him. He puts an FBI cap on Sasha’s head and hands him an ID. “Welcome back, agent Porter.”

“Took you long enough,” Sasha reproaches, but he allows his smile dispel the accusatory tone by reflecting both fondness and gratitude.

* * *

“We know what went wrong?” Sasha asks when they fucking _finally_ leave. 

“Yes. The security guard took toilet breaks because he had the runs. He called someone to trade with him when he got bad enough to realise that he couldn't work. That’s why someone was where they shouldn't. The guard was only certain they saw you, and only _thought_ he'd seen a second person. So I got away clean after completing the mission,” Mitchell explains.

“What is Shane and Pærsson doing here?” The pair rode in a separate car.

“They called to inform you that they'd run into trouble. When they couldn't get to you, they called me. So we teamed up to get you out.”

“Trouble?”

“They'd resolved it. I think Shane felt somehow honour bound to tell you that you were right,” Mitchell says with a nonplussed expression. Like the very notion of admitting to a wrong was beyond him.

Sasha chuckles. “Fair enough.”

“Sorry it took so long. I had Bug hack into the FBI database to make all the paperwork check out. But before that I had to create a credible undercover mission that would place you at the plant to begin with.”

“No harm done.” 

Sasha is once again feeling the lack of sleep, along with aches in his body from sitting still for too long, and pain in his jaw from the punch he'd gotten from Spaz after his arrest. No sleep to be had yet though. He pulls up his burner phone and makes a call, putting someone on the retributive job of tormenting Spaz. He throws in the commissioner too as a treat for Mosby. If the commissioner misused his power to allow his son to disregard all procedure and get away with it, then he was probably a big reason why Mosby looked so completely done with everything. Fair enough. Mosby might not be happy to have two colleagues go belly up whether he liked them or not. But Sasha gives zero fuck about that. It’s still a token of respect, from Sasha’s point of view.

* * *

Mitchell has moved their stuff to a luxury hotel in the city. Instead of booking separate rooms he’s gotten them a suite with two bedrooms and a lounge. As much as Sasha enjoys his company, he feels suddenly paranoid about it. Mitchell’s used to work marks over long assignments, building trust. It’s hard to tell if the personal information Mitchell’s given him is true or just something he thinks Sasha needed to hear. “Do you have pictures of him?” he asks Mitchell out of the blue when they step into the suite.

“What?”

“You have any pictures of Yippi?” Sasha doesn’t remember seeing any in Mitchell’s apartment.

“Um… yes.”

“Can I see them?”

“What? Like, right now?” Mitchell asks, seeming very uncomfortable with the idea.

“Yes.”

“Bro. You’ve been awake for more than 24 hours and have just spent 10 of those under arrest. Are you sure you want to look at cat pictures? _Now_?”

_Fuck. There is no cat, is there? And now you’re trying to buy time to get some pictures as proof…. And I fucking believed you._

Sasha claps a hand to Mitchell’s shoulder and holds it there. “Brother, I can honestly say, that there’s nothing I’d rather do right now than look at pictures of Yippi. It’ll help get my mind off of things, you get what I’m saying?” 

Mitchell hesitates, locking gaze with Sasha before he answers, gauging the seriousness in the request. “Um. Alright. Sure...um.” Mitchell gestures at the couch in the lounge, indicating for Sasha to sit. He turns and walks towards the minibar. “You want something?” he asks as he opens it, taking out a little whiskey bottle, uncorking it and downing its content.

“A beer, thanks,” Sasha answers and sits down, pretending he isn’t aware that Mitchell is having a nervous meltdown by Mitchell’s standards. 

Mitchell drinks another miniature bottle of liquid courage, then opens two beers and comes to sit down beside Sasha, handing him one of the beers. Mitchell is quiet and withdrawn, clearly at unease. He takes forth his smartphone, laying it on the low table in front of them. Then takes off his shoes and digs a little pen knife out of a pocket. He takes one of his shoes in hand and uses the pen knife to cut open a seam, digging out a microSD card from the shoe. By now Sasha’s suspiciousness is warping into curiosity.

“It’s just a cat,” Mitchell says as he puts the SD card into his phone, using a tone of voice that makes it sound as if Yippi was of no importance.

_That’s self-defence. You’re not lying about Yippi, are you? You’re grieving._

“If he was with you for twenty two years, he’s family,” Sasha says, making Mitchell halt his movements for a beat to scrutinize him.

Mitchell turns his attention towards his phone again, opening up the gallery. There are twenty two folders, each marked with a year. “You want to see him as a kitten or adult?”

“Let’s start with kitten. Why did you get him?”

Mitchell opens the 1992 folder and stares down at the photos that greets him. He clicks one and hands the phone over to Sasha. “I had been out of prison for a while but felt lost, angry, and lonely. I refused to go back home and I hated everybody I met per default. Got the notion to get a pet for company. Thought that if it didn’t help stave off the loneliness and was too much of a hassle I could just give it to somebody else or have it put down. Goes to show how much I knew about animals, huh?”

Sasha looks at the picture of the fluffy black and white kitten. Without asking for permission he swipes to the next picture which is a selfie of a long haired twenty-something Mitchell smiling broadly and holding up the kitten by his face, while the kitten bops his nose. The pictures looks like they’ve been scanned in from physical photos, which makes sense, since back in 92 there were no camera phones. “He’s cute. Where did you get him?”

“Animal shelter. Passed by it several times a week. That’s probably what gave me the idea in the first place. Went inside one day. They had a mother with four kittens that I got to meet and play with for a while. I wore a hoodie with one of those front pouches. Yippi crawled inside, then threw a violent rage fit when the staff tried to remove him. So I guess you could say, he chose me.”

Mitchell is still very uncomfortable. He looks torn between wanting to lean towards Sasha to look at the pictures and wanting to turn his head away. Sasha takes a sip of his beer and swipes through more pictures of the kitten growing, playing, making a mess. There are many selfies with Mitch and Yippi. “What did you do with him during missions?”

“At the time I got him I was still a pawn and had no idea I was working for the _Porodica_. If I had to go out of town I took him with me. I kept doing that until I got my current apartment. The old lady who lives on my floor took care of him while I was away…”

“Why don’t you have any pictures of him in your apartment?”

Mitchell gets out of the couch, goes to fetch a chair standing by the wall, drags it under the smoke detector and gets up on it, reaching up to the detector to pull out the batteries.

Sasha gets that he’s stumbled onto some heavy fucking emotions going on. He takes his cigarettes out of his pocket, takes one out, lights it and puts the pack on the table in front of the place Mitchell vacated. Sleep will have to wait. The pictures he’s looking at don’t look photoshopped or tampered with. This is A) An open wound. B) Definitely a part of Mitchell that’s really him. C) A conversation _he_ forced, that now has changed to an opportunity to bond, and to take care of one of his charges to make sure he doesn’t fail under pressure on the job because he has too many feelings boiling inside. Preventative care, if you will.

He could back off the topic and go to bed. But he ain’t doing that. He wonders if his rank is the reason Mitchell didn’t deny him in the first place, or if it’s genuine trust.

Mitchell comes back, bringing more miniature bottles from the minibar, and a glass of water to use as an ashtray. He reaches for the pack of cigarettes in front of him, getting that Sasha put them there for him. 

“Um. Well… Don’t laugh,” Mitchell says as he lights a cigarette.

“The fuck would I laugh for?”

“When I look at the pictures… It hits me every time, he ain’t coming back, and I…” Mitchell pauses, drags a hand over his face, blows out smoke downward, fidgets. “That’s why I keep them stored on an SD card. I can’t look at them, and I don’t want to lose them if I have to evacuate really fast. It’s hard, you feel me?”

Sasha nods seriously. “Course I do. Mitch. You seriously believe I’d laugh at you grieving the loss of your life partner?”

Mitchell blinks at him, a troubled frown on his face. “It’s just a cat,” he repeats.

“Fucking hell, he ain't. Don’t fucking do that. Don’t invalidate him and the bond you shared. You an’ me,” Sasha gestures between them with his hand, putting them on the same side mentally. “We don’t have any fucked up rules in place that forbids us to love. Not like the божја браћа. We don’t have to pretend we’re untouched by strong emotional bonds. That’s our fucking prerogative. And fuck, but whether you form those bonds with people or animals, they’re still what keeps us going. What makes all the shit we see bearable. You get what I’m sayin?” 

Mitchell’s lips fucking trembles. He nods. Takes a sharp drag on his cigarette. Looks away. “But you never had a cat. You don’t know what it’s like losing one.”

“No I haven’t. But I’ve lost people I’ve loved. Fuck, I saw my first big love get run over by a car, killed on the spot. If you don’t think that wasn’t a stab to the heart, then you’re just dumb.”

“You compare the loss of a cat to the loss of a girlfriend?” Mitch says, looking at him.

“You bet I do. The love may not be the same, but the strength of it can be. And you told me yourself, you don’t do romance. You know why Lucifer is no longer involved in the _Porodica_ business?”

Mitchell shakes his head. It’s not a secret, but it’s not general knowledge either. So Sasha tells him about Luci’s dog. 

“And he went and got himself another one?” Mitch asks, brows climbing high.

“It’s not his,” Sasha lies confidently. “It belongs to someone else in his crew.” Thinking about it, it’s probably no lie. Luci is smart enough to put someone else's name on the paperwork. Possibly Castiel. But until he knows, he’ll not lie about who owns it. “Anyway, would you tell me a bit about Yippi? After all, as you pointed out, I’ve never had a cat, and I’m about to get one for my ladyfriend.” He holds up the phone on a picture where Yippi is doing a fucked up facial expression. “For instance, what’s going on here?”

“First time trying out catnip,” Mitchell says with a little smile. His eyes are sad, but he starts telling stories about Yippi based on the photos. And once he gets started, seeing Sasha actively listen, it pours out of him. Later years have little video snippets too, once smart phones came onto the market. Half a pack of cigarettes, several beers and mini booze bottles later, something breaks and Mitchell starts tearing up. He’s not _crying_ crying, tears are just building up and welling over. By then he’s no longer avoiding looking at the pictures, but holding the phone himself. The frequent selfies with Yippi reveals exactly what level of chameleon Mitch is. He’s had almost any hairdo, hair colour, variation of beard and moustache you can think of. Yippi might have been an indoor cat, but was frequently walked on a leash, judging by both stories and pictures. Things in the background reveals that Mitchell’s been stationed in the US and Europe. Sasha identifies landmarks from Germany, UK, Italy, and France.

Working under the assumption that Mitch is an IA―and IAs are appointed by the божја браћа personally―it ought to be an бог брат in either Europe or US that’s launched him. That makes ten possible божја браћа, minus Mikey and Luci, that’s eight. He’s giving Doug the benefit of a doubt, then they’re down to seven. Out of those seven Bael and Julian are the most dangerous to Sasha, and Daniel is a wildcard. It’s really fucking important to figure out whose creature Mitch is. If he knows that, he can adjust what he reveals and doesn’t reveal. Spending some time to comfort and talk about a cat is worth the time. But sleep deprivation and alcohol on an empty stomach is taking its toll.

“At least now I know what kind of crazy you are to make me like you,” Sasha teases.

“And what’s that?”

“You’re the crazy cat lady,” Sasha jokes and bumps Mitchell’s shoulder with his own, good natured grin in place.

Mitchell chuckles. “I guess. I was at least. I don’t know if I’ll ever get a new cat to replace Yippi.”

“If you’re trying to find a replacer for him, you won’t. Any cat will be another personality and your relationship will be new. And fuck, Mitch. Maybe your next life partner won’t be a cat.”

“I’ve told you, I’m not into romancing women.”

“I wasn’t talking bout a girl. I was thinking more like a cockatoo, a macaw, or some kind of parrot. They’re smart, loyal and quirky as fuck. They live for forty to seventy years as far as I’ve heard. If you got one of those, it’d be different enough from Yippi that it wouldn’t stand in his shadow, if you get what I’m sayin?”

Mitchell breaks out laughing. But once he stops laughing he has this perplexed, thoughtful expression. “I know nothing about birds,” he states.

“Unlike the certified cat expert you were when you got Yippi.” Sasha winks at him. “And, oy. It’s just a suggestion, Mitch. Ain’t sayin you shouldn’t get a cat. I’m just saying that there’s possible alternatives. Sides, there’s no rush. No need to get a new companion before you’ve let go of your last one. Now I’m off to sleep. Goodnight,” Sasha says, pats Mitchell on the knee and gets up to go to his room, making a stop at the bathroom first.

* * *

30+ hours awake, tipsy, achey, and fucking tired. He’s too old to be doing these long hours awake and not feel it. Since he left Mikey, sleep had been scarce and worries plentiful. Finally in his room he sheds his clothes, gets his bag and grabs his real phone to set the alarm. Only to discover that he has _thirty-fucking-five_ missed calls from Michael. 

_Oh, for fuck sake._

He does a thorough search for bugs in the room, just in case Mitchell is trying to listen in. He doesn’t find any. Then he crawls into bed, pulls the covers over himself, and calls Mikey.

Mikey picks up at half a ring. “Where have you been?” Mikey says urgently.

“You okay, baby?” Sasha asks, hearing the strained tone.

“I’m fucking great!” Mikey spits sarcastically. “Where have you been? You’ve been drinking,” he goes on to say in an accusatory tone.

Sasha doesn’t know if he should roll his eyes, groan, or laugh. One three word sentence, and Mikey had picked up the difference in his voice made by alcohol. Impressive. If Sasha hadn’t known better he’d guessed Mikey had grown up with alcoholic parents or lived in a relationship with an alcoholic. Now it’s only a fruit of schooling. And frankly, Mikey has no business in whether Sasha’s had a drink or two after a day like this. No more than Sasha himself had the right to dictate whether Mikey did drugs or not. (Not that he was going to stop working on having Mikey conquer his demons rather than drugging them.) “Yes, Princess. I’ve had a couple of drinks,” he says annoyedly. “I’ve had this day go to shit, been arrested, and then had to resolve a personal thing with my partner. You want to argue, I’ll call you tomorrow instead. I’m too tired to butt heads right now. Nothing good will come out of it.” And ain’t that the truth. If Mikey pushes on about the drinking, Sasha might get mean and say stuff he doesn’t mean―or rather, things he _does_ mean, but don’t mean to say out loud. The arrow would spin right back towards Mikey discarding him two and a half years prior. An issue he has trouble dropping, but wants to get over.

“You were arrested?” Mikey asks, thankfully not aiming to start a fight.

“Yes. Ten less than lovely hours spent in the care of the Texas tans.”

“Ten hours? Why didn’t you call me? I could've gotten you out much faster.” Mikey’s tone is demanding and tense.

In spite of himself, Sasha smiles and closes his eyes. “They wouldn’t let me make a call, Princess. And even if they had, I’d have gone for the central. Our safety system is a well oiled machine. In the end, no call was necessary. My partner got me out, safe and mostly sound.” He tries to remember not to use key _Porodica_ terms, in case there is a bug in here, and he missed it. Should he be confronted about what he’s said, he can concoct a lie about what he’s told his ‘ladyfriend’ about what he does.

“Mostly? And could you stop calling me princess? I’m a fucking man!” Mikey is weighing back and forth between sounding harried and being pissy.

Sasha holds up his phone, switches to camera mode and takes a selfie. He has a dark bruise along the jaw, but it’s not badly swollen. He sends the selfie and puts the phone back by his ear. “I could. But I’m not sure this room is free of bed bugs. Wouldn’t want them to bite us in the ass,” he explains. Like worrying about listeners is the real reason he’s using female pronouns. (Hah!) Seems legit enough. “Sent you a picture just now.”

“Oh... Then I guess I’ll allow it for now,” Mikey says grumpily before the line goes silent while Mikey opens the picture, “ _Who punched you_? Tell me! They’re fucking dead meat. How _dare_ they? I’ll fucking kill them!”

_Oh, but you’re a Princess indeed, love. Or a queen rather. The queen from Alice in Wonderland. ‘Off with their heads!’_

Mikey’s outrage makes Sasha grin contentedly. It’s a reaction that should be reserved for another бог брат. He loves it when Mikey gets protective. “Don’t worry. It’s been taken care of. The mission was completed without being jeopardised. My partner put together a good cover up.”

“What was the personal thing you had to resolve?” Mikey asks, still demanding.

“He has recently lost a loved one. So I had a few beers with him to let him talk about it.”

“Croatoans do that shit for each other?” Mikey asks in bewilderment. 

“ _I_ do, baby girl. I’m a good partner, alright?” Sasha answers, not sure if he’s to be amused or insulted. Croatoans were lethal and ruthless weapons by all means, but they were still human. And friendships formed. Even the cruellest of killers could be warm and loving towards friends and family. “Enough about that, how are you doing, baby? Are you okay?”

Mikey’s quiet for a moment. “I wasn’t. Then you didn't answer your phone and I... got worried,” Mikey admits grudgingly.

“That came across. Thirty five calls, baby girl,” Sasha says with a fond smile. As annoying as the clinginess is, it feels good to have somebody who gives a shit whether he lives or not. He can practically hear Mikey gnashing his teeth at the endearment. Oh, Sasha’s going to milk the hell out of this one. It makes him think of an old conversation about panties and plaited skirts. The idea of seeing Mikey in such getup hadn’t been unpleasant back then, but now it was incredibly enticing. 

“At least it got my mind occupied with something else. I want you to come home. _Now_ ,” Michael commands. Fucking bratty asshole.

“I can’t. I have to work.”

“No you don’t. I called Doug. Your next drop isn’t until next week. Get your ass home.”

Nevermind that Mikey refers to his apartment as Sasha’s ‘home’, Sasha still feels annoyance crawling and frowns. “You _called Do―_ , nevermind. Baby, sometimes I think you don’t get the amount of work that came with my promotion. My main mission isn’t the only thing I do, you know?”

“You can do the rest from here,” Mikey challenges.

“No, I can’t. Tomorrow I have a debriefing with one of the other teams concerning what went wrong for them, and the story concocted to get me out of jail. Then, the day after that I’m headed for New Mexico to follow up on a possible lead on my other assignment.”

“Rogues?”

“Yes,” Sasha lies. He can’t very well say that they’re trying to find monsters. “So you see, I fucking _can’t_ do my job from home.”

In response Mikey makes a long whining noise.

“I know, baby girl. But you’ll have to make do with my voice until then,” Sasha coos. “A couple of weeks will fly by, and before you know it I’ll be back by your side.”

“Fly by? Yeah, time doesn’t move that way for me,” Mikey says dejectedly. There’s a slight shift in the cadence of his voice, if goes softer, less demanding, less high strung, more concerned. “You sound really tired. You need to sleep? We can talk tomorrow. I shouldn’t keep you up when you’ve got things to do. Especially if you’ve already dealt with one emotional crisis today.”

_Like flipping a switch._

Sasha sits up in bed, grabs his pendant and runs it in the seam of his lip, brushing the ring with his lips on every drag. His brows draw together, not in annoyance this time, but in solicitude. “I _am_ tired, pretty one. But I don’t want to hang up yet. I miss you. I just don’t want to argue about things we cannot change, baby girl. You get what I’m saying?”

Honestly, he wanted to hang up until the moment Michael switched to being understanding, suggesting it.

“Mh. I don’t feel very pretty right now though. I’ve barely slept, I keep having these,” Mikey pauses in search for words, “...intrusive thoughts. And when you didn’t pick up… they got worse. The worst thing about it is, that with the work you do, they may have been honest, you know? All these horrible things they kept telling me had happened, they _might_ have. I know you can take care of yourself, but…” Michael’s voice. Calmer, sad, thoughtful.

It’s like Mikey had handed over the phone to somebody else. Somebody older, more mature and less spoilt. “Even when you look like shit you’re still one of the sexiest b― girls south of the north pole, by comparison, baby,” Sasha tells him, lips curving upward and chest getting warmer inside.

Mikey is unfazed by Sasha’s near slip up, seemingly suddenly unbothered by being called a girl. His tone carries a smile. “Nearly all of Earth’s population is south of north pole, sweetheart.”

“My point exactly,” Sasha says, smiling back. “And I’d like to tell you, you’ve got nothing to worry about, but I’m afraid you’re right. It was a close call today, with how badly the asshole who arrested me wanted to pull the trigger. I’ll start using a bulletproof vest for the upcoming missions. For both our sakes. I told you, you’re stuck with me.”

Mikey chuckles. “Thank you. I needed to hear that.”

Humility and vulnerability. Such a switch from the desperate, pissy semi-tantrum Mikey pitched a moment ago. Sasha lies back down, but keeps stroking his lower lip with his pendant. “What caused the crisis, baby? Before I didn’t answer.”

Mikey is quiet for a while. “It’s stupid.”

“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Nevertheless, it affected you, so please tell me. I told you to call me when you needed me. Talk to me, baby girl. I’m here for you, even if I can’t be there physically,” Sasha coaxes.

Mikey draws a deep breath, holds it, then lets it out with a long exhale. “Okay…. I got scared. I woke up, and the thing you’d written on my arm was gone. You _did_ write on my arm, right, Lex?”

There Mikey goes, doubting reality. It worries Sasha, but he’s infinitely grateful that Mikey’s talking about it. Maybe he has some disease affecting his memory. Like alzheimer's. “Yes I did. I wrote your nickname for me, drew a silly heart underneath, then wrote your name,” he describes, to confirm Mikey’s memory. “Because I love you,” he adds―redundantly, to him. But possibly not for Mikey.

“Right. I’ve been really careful, Lexi. Keeping it dry while I washed myself, so it’d remain until you come back. But when I woke up, it was gone. I must have done it myself. Who’d break in just to wash it off? Without waking me? But I have no memory of doing so and it freaked me out.”

It’s on the tip of Sasha’s tongue to tell Mikey to just fill it in again. Mikey’s a great artist. Sasha doesn’t doubt for a minute that Mikey could copy it to perfection. Luckily he stops himself before the words are out. If Mikey is struggling to know what memories are real, the last thing he wants, is to cover the memory of him writing on Mikey’s skin, with a memory of Mikey doing it to himself. “Tell you what, baby. The next time I come home, I’ll tattoo my declaration of love onto your skin, so you can’t wash it off. If you want to. It’s a risk, since you’ll have to keep it hidden. So we might have to place the tattoo somewhere else. But it’s a solution that’ll keep it from happening again.”

“What if you stop loving me?”

“Are you planning to betray me, or send me away again?”

“No. Never.”

“Then I doubt I’ll ever stop loving you. And if you don’t want it as a tattoo, I can write in marker again, and you can take a selfie of us while I write. And should you wash it off in your sleep again, I can send you the selfie. Over and over. Whatever shit your brain throws at you, we’ll find a solution for it. Okay?”

“Thank you,” Mikey says softly. 

“I’m not comfortable with saying I love you out loud. It makes me feel like I put myself at your mercy. I'm more a showing by doing kind of guy, you get what I’m sayin? But you need to hear it repeated to believe it, right?”

“Yes.”

“I'll keep telling you then, until there's no room for doubt in your mind.”

Another soft “Thank you.”

“We need to trust each other, baby girl. I need your honesty. This thing going on between us, the stakes are sky high. We can’t go around keeping things within ourselves. I've been around long enough to see most relationships fail due to what _isn't_ said. You with me?”

“Yes. It’s, it's hard. Vati, I've, I've been keeping things under lid for so long. I'm afraid of the consequences if I tell people. I'm scared. I'm always scared. Can we… can we talk about this the next time we meet in person? I don't want to talk about this if I can't touch you at the same time.”

“Fair enough.” ‘Vati’. He still has no clue what it means, but what he does know is that when Mikey calls him that, he’s trusting and surrendering control. “Another thing, baby. You can't act as if you own me. Not when we're going down this road. I've given up everything else, because I'm obliged to, but this is me giving you…” he pauses to search for the right words, to get Mikey to really grasp what he’s saying. “...giving you my light. I feel angry and mutinous when you order me to give it, you get what I’m sayin?” It feels weird calling it that, but he remembers the conversation they had in the bathroom before he left. And since Mikey dropped that demanding attitude from the beginning of the call, and seems to be actively listening now, he brings it up.

“I get what you're saying, Lex. But I. I can’t make promises. I'm not. I'm not always in control. I don’t…” Mikey sighs, at loss for words. 

“It’s okay, baby. What I'm trying to say is that I've got to see to my own needs first, or I won't be able to see to yours. I'll get angry sometimes if you push me. You’re not the only one who can be a pissy little bitch, you feel me?”

Mikey laughs, popping the serious mood like a bubble. “At least you got that right. God knows you can be a grumpy old cur at times.”

“It's my prerogative,” Sasha answers with a grin. “You need someone to offset you, your majesty,” he jokes. 

“Yeah. I know,” Mikey says, voice carrying a warm smile. “I'll let you sleep now. Talk to you tomorrow?”

“You know it, baby.”

Mikey giggles and all is well in Sasha’s world. “Good night, sweetheart.”

“Good night,” Sasha answers and hangs up. He puts the phone on his chest and closes his eyes with a tired sigh. Maybe he should have a new title again. _Porodica_ counsellor and therapist. They don’t have one of those yet. He wants to go through and analyse his conversation with Mikey, since Mikey finally has started to open up and fucking _communicate_. And there had been something about that sudden switch from pissy and entitled to concerned and humble that tickled Sasha, along with the word choices when he talked about intrusive thoughts. But―

* * *

“Rise and shine, bro.”

Sasha blinks awake. It felt like he just had fallen asleep mid thought a mere moment ago. “It’s too early,” he complains without having a clue what time it is, watching Mitchell pull the curtains open. His phone is still lying on his chest where he dropped it yesterday. He never even set the alarm or cut the lights.

“The early bird gets the worm,” Mitchell says with a smirk. 

“The second mouse always gets the cheese,” he counters. 

Mitchell’s surprised laugh rings clear and lifts Sasha’s mood. “Touchė. But we have our debriefing with Shane and Pærsson in an hour, and I figured you'd want to shower first. I had breakfast delivered to us. All you have to do is get that lazy ass out of bed.”

Sasha chuckles. He feels hungover, but he hadn’t drunk enough for that. It’s too little sleep for too many days that’s the cause. It’s tempting to just order Mitchell to reschedule everything and spend the whole day sleeping. He has the power to do that. It’s not who he is though. Tired or not, he gets out of bed to meet the new day. It is what it is. He can deal.

* * *


	14. Private Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha takes care of some private business, and stumbles across some information that bothers him. He also has a revelation.

* * *

**2014**

* * *

Summer

“Hand me the phone,” Sasha orders.

“Hold on, Chaadayev wants to talk to you,” Mitchell says into the speaker then hands the phone over.

“Hello, Aleksandr Chaadayev speaking. Is this Bug?”

“Y-y-y-es, Sir.”

“I wanted to thank you for a job well done. That was some solid work you did,” Sasha says, referring to the modification to the FBI database that Bug had made to get Sasha out.

“Ju-ju-ju-ju-just d-d-d-d-d-oing m-mm-m-m-mmy j-j-j-j-j-job, Sir,” Bug answers with one of the worst case of stuttering Sasha’s had the misfortune to encounter. No wonder Manny had gone into bully mode. But mistaking a hacker for being defenseless and stupid due to a speech impediment was moronic.

“Obviously. But it was flawlessly performed and credit should go where credit is due. I wanted you to know that it hasn’t passed me by,” he says. He finds it important that the people working behind the scenes get acknowledged for their work too. It’s one of those things he has to think about as a leader. Mitchell’s studying him with interest while he speaks.

“Th-thank y-y-y-y-y-you, S-sir.”

“Is there anything I can get you as a reward? More money? Women? Men? New equipment? A certain assignment? A special edition Xbox or whatever you tech guys treasure, that I’m too dull to wrap my head around?”

Bug laughs, and somehow it surprises Sasha that the laughter is open and flowing, not stuttered. “N-n-no, Sir.”

“Alright then. If you change your mind, don’t hesitate to contact me. I’m handing over the phone to Mitch now. Stay safe. Bye,” he says and gives Mitchell the phone back. He sees veiled approval in Mitchell’s eyes.

As Mitchell goes on talking to Bug with commendable patience, Sasha writes down orders for him on a note, hands it over. He fetches his bag and leaves the hotel room.

* * *

He hadn’t gone far. Just to the hotel closest to theirs, gotten a room and sat down by the desk. It’s a smaller room and he’s only planning to stay here to work unbothered for a couple of hours before going back. He sets up his laptop and logs onto the network. First thing he does is find Castiel’s name on the roster. His suspicions are confirmed, and while Castiel is registered, he hasn’t been assigned an identification number. He assigns him one, and makes a mental note of informing Luci of their new routines that came with the creation of the A list and by making word “Croatoan” known to the world. Nowadays, the carving on the arm wasn’t enough, as people may copy it. Any Croatoan may challenge another for the ID number, to be able to check the claim of being one as legit. It might be vital should Luci decide to make anyone else. Castiel too needs to memorise this number. He’ll inform him personally, he decides. How, is another matter. 

He checks who owns Anna’s house, finds out that it's Castiel. Does some research and finds that ownership had gone straight from Anna to Castiel. The house had never been impounded by the bank. So who paid for her treatment? Castiel? He vows to dig deeper into this issue the next time he visits twin towns. 

After that he calls Doug for an update about how the new nannies are working out (Splendidly) and to mention the rumours about his leadership. He calls Tyler and Saul each individually to drop the same information. Making sure they’re both aware that he’s unhappy with those rumours. After a moment's’ deliberation, he calls Addi too with the same information. _That_ call makes him feel dirty, and makes him want to wash his phone afterwards, but he figures he should talk to all божја браћа he’s had recent interactions with.

That done, he looks through internet for apartments and houses for sale and calls a couple of realtors. That takes a gross amount of time even if he’s not _that_ particular with what he wants. He transfers money around, and makes a couple of payments. He does some research on the internet for the idea he got the other night, and then calls Peters, asking him for a favour, wanting help getting a particular gift to Mikey. Even given the choice to delegate, Peters doesn’t, showing a lot of curiosity about the idea. That call takes two hours, as Sasha stays on the phone with Peters, using a live streaming app to see what Peters is doing, and picking colours and combinations. The gift will take a couple of hours to deliver and set up, so he calls Mikey to talk for a while without risking Mitchell listening in. He digs up his folder with Mikey’s pictures from his bag and looks at them while they talk. Mikey’s better off today, being in the same mode as he was the time they spoke after Sasha had left with Addi. Laughing a lot, complimenting, flirty. In fact, Mikey’s so flirty it gets Sasha going. He lies down on the bed while they talk and one thing leads to the other, so when they end the conversation, it had led to a happy ending for the both of them, and he could tick off phone sex as yet something else he’d never thought he’d end up doing with a бог брат.

When he leaves the hotel to go back to the hotel he’s staying at with Mitchell, he owns property for the first time in his life. All under different names. It’s just the beginning. He'll start buying land and houses all over the world, maybe a couple of boats too. He’s a rogue now. He’s got secrets. It’s time to start spending the money he's been hoarding. He’s preparing for a war. Sooner or later he might have to go into hiding, or just as likely stash someone away for safekeeping. Bendi for an instance. 

But the real truth of the matter is that he wants someplace to keep Mikey’s drawings, where he can hang it on the wall and look at it. The thought makes him smile. He’s just bought several houses and apartments for the sake of two A4 sized drawings. Whoever does that? Whoever _needs_ to?

* * *

Back in the suite Mitchell pins him with a dark glare and says “I'm sure you did it to punish me for something. I just don’t know what?”

Sasha chuckles and drops his bag beside the couch. “What? Not a fan of paperwork?”

“Sure I am. It’s my favourite thing to do,” Mitchell answers sarcastically and hands Sasha a thick file Sasha had ordered him to put together on the note he handed to Mitch before he left. It’s a compilation of everything ‘they’ have said about Sasha, hopefully including names and quotes. Judging by the thickness of the file, Mitchell has been thorough.

“You'll be happy to know I went to a luxury massage parlour and spoiled myself rotten while you toiled,” Sasha teases with a smirk. 

Mitchell sniggers. “You’re so full of crap.”

“Eyy. It could be true,” Sasha grins at him. 

“Like hell it ain't. The day you ain't working twice as hard as those beneath you, is the day I wonder who the imposter is and what he’s done to the real you.”

“I relax sometimes.” Today’s endeavors _could_ be interpreted as work, but not for the _Porodica_. And while his interests overlapped with his actual work on several points (keeping some of the божја браћа safe and sound), the ultimate goal was betrayal.

“Not while anyone else is working, you don’t,” Mitchell challenges. “And now we'll eat, then you'll want to go through tomorrow's plans. Then you'll bid me goodnight and go into your room and study the file for a couple of hours, strategise and make plans. Possibly make a couple of calls based on the info I've given you. _Then_ you'll relax. All while I have a beer or two, watch some TV, have a nice wank and sleep like a babe.” Mitchell gives him a shiteating grin.

Sasha’s a bit taken aback about the accuracy of Mitchell’s statement. Fair enough, it's part of Mitchell’s job to figure people out and keep track. And they've been working as partners for a couple of months. Sasha hasn’t exactly tried to act unpredictably when he’s with Mitch. But still. Getting his own plans recounted to him before he’s mentioned them, makes him a bit uneasy. “Yeah? And what will I do tomorrow then?” he asks with a lopsided smirk, feigning unaffected.

“You'll be up before me, order breakfast for us, hit the shower. Then we'll eat and you'll ask follow up questions about my report. We'll hit the road and after that anything can happen.”

“Sounds about right. Let's go eat then. How bout the steak house across the street?”

“I’m in.”

* * *

He’s in bed reading the report Mitchell’s written. It’s fucking perfect. It’s the kind of report that makes him never want to let go of Mitchell and keep him as an assistant/partner on every fucking assignment he’ll ever get. Mitch not only included the positive statements about him, but the ambiguous, and the bad. Who said it, where they’d heard it, and side notes of what triggered the discussion. It was even summed up with a brief recommendation of who to be beware of, and what pitfalls to avoid based on the rumours. The same conclusions Sasha made while reading, by all means. This was pure gold, especially as Mitchell had put it together in a single day, after the briefing with Shane and Pærsson. The only thing that freaked Sasha out was the thought that maybe one of the божја браћа got to read reports like this about _him._ Mitchell missed nothing. 

And maybe Mitch _isn’t_ IA. Maybe he is just so fucking good that Sasha sees he’d be perfect for it, and therefore took for granted the божја браћа had noticed too. Maybe it’s just that Sasha feels so inclined to trust the guy, that does it.

_You’re making me severely paranoid, Mitch._

Just as Mitchell had predicted, he makes a few phone calls based on the information he’s gotten. Putting some new ears to the ground, ordering a few people moved to other places, putting two _croats_ on missions he knows to be suicide missions. Oh, if they pull through, he’ll have to award them well to smooth down their feathers. But they’re threats to his safety, undermining his position, and he wants them out of the way. He also makes a few adjustments the other way, putting a couple of Croatoans on nice, fun missions, as an award. Not that he phrases it that way, but it’s nevertheless the truth.

When he’s done, it’s two AM. He’s tempted to call Mikey, but if Mikey’s sleeping he doesn’t want to wake him. He’s just curious about what Mikey thought of his gift. He sends a text to Peters.

`Did he like it?`

He cuts the light and closes his eyes. When he’s drifting off to sleep his phone beeps for incoming text. He reaches for his phone. It’s from Peters.

`I don’t know. He was out when the delivery guys finally came. I oversaw when they set it up, threw a sheet over it and pinned the card to it.`

Sasha had included a birthday card. Mikey turns thirty one in less than a month, so the card is an alibi, should anyone question the gift. He doesn’t think anyone will. The ring is conspicuous, this gift is not.

`Okay. Thanks. Goodnight.`

`No prob. You too.`

Oh well. He’d just have to wait and see…

* * *

Michael calls when they’ve entered New Mexico and are nearing town that is their target. Mitch is currently driving since they switched half an hour prior.

“We’re in company, so keep it PG rated, baby,” Sasha answers the phone in lieu of a greeting, watching Mitchell grin at the road ahead. 

“Why did you get me this?” Mikey asks, skipping the hello too.

“You didn’t like it?”

“That’s not it, I’m just stumped for what goes on in your mind.”

Sasha smirks. “Ditto, baby. But fair enough. A bouquet of pretty colours in a glass vase with water is what to give a pretty girl like you, yes?”

Michael laughs. “First of all, it’s called schools, not bouquets. And I’m pretty sure it’s called a tank, not a vase, sweetheart.” Sasha can hear Mikey smirking right back at him. It’s not like he doesn’t _know_ what fish in an aquarium are called. “But seriously, I came home to find a fucking 1000 gallon aquarium in my living room. I didn’t know what to make of it. I would have called sooner, but I got stuck watching the fish. Cichlids, they’re called, right?”

“Yes. You’ve been looking at them until _now_?”

“Well… not quite…” Mikey sounds a bit flustered. “I… my alarm on the phone has gone off twice. I’ve got it set to remind me to eat so you won’t pester me about it. So I’ve eaten.” It sounds like Mikey isn’t too happy about admitting to this, but it has Sasha’s heart fluttering and his insides feeling warm and fuzzy, to hear that Mikey takes care of himself to please him. And it’s a sound strategy. You could set the alarm these days to go off weekly, daily, with written reminders. (Blessed technology!) He wants to ask Mikey how many meals a day he’s got his alarm set on, but doesn’t, since Mitch is right beside him. Twice since yesterday means―depending on when he got home―either dinner and breakfast, or breakfast and lunch. Either way, this is fantastic news! “Anyway,” Mikey goes on, “I ate, then got stuck watching again. I’ve pulled out my art gear now. Going to draw them. I just wondered what you were thinking, getting me this?”

Mitch sitting next to him, be damned. Sasha is smiling so hard his cheeks hurt, especially the bruised one, and the skin around his eyes crinckles deeply. Mitch throws a look at him and Sasha sees his lips draw into an involuntary curious smile, like it does when you see somebody get genuinely happy. Even if the stupid fish only distracted Mikey for a day or two, it’d be worth it. He got the idea from the dream he had. Mikey was obsessed with making his surrounding as colourful as possible. So he’d chosen colourful fish that were active, curious, and badass. Thanks to the research he’d made, and Peters’ help visiting the closest aquarium store (a leasing company, really. But with enough money he’d gotten to buy what he wanted), it had gone smoothly. It was hard to tell what Mikey’s reaction to it would be, since no бог брат had ever owned an aquarium to his knowledge. He’d figured it’d be both soothing and chase away a fraction of the loneliness Mikey must be feeling. But this was better than he could have hoped for. Anything that inspired Mikey to draw or paint was good in his book.

“You’re a smart girl, you’ll figure it out, baby,” Sasha answers teasingly. “But let’s talk more later. I’m in a car and I can see my partner’s ears getting bigger as we speak. Send me pictures. I can’t get enough of your beauty.”

Mikey chortles. “Yeah, yeah. Shut up. I’ll send you pictures of what I draw,” he says, showing he understood what Sasha wanted. His voice sounds both warm and a bit shy. Sasha has a hard time comprehending the signs of insecurity Mikey shows about his art. But then again, artists tend to find faults with their own work, and Mikey’s only ever had feedback from Sasha about it. Mikey’s a perfectionist who puts tons of pressure on himself. Even if he sees that what he does is good, he’ll be seeing the miniscule flaws that nobody else sees too. Sasha thinks of how eagerly and nervously Mikey always awaits judgement when he shows him new art. Like he’s not a 100% sure it’s good until Sasha’s spoken. It’s like he hands over his heart to be judged with every new picture. He probably is.

“Looking forward to it. Bye, pretty one,” Sasha says, voice warm and mouth smiling, thumb tracing along the side of his ring.

“Bye, Love,” Mikey says and hangs up.

Like he hadn’t just pulled the handbrake on Sasha’s brain. ‘Bye, _Love_.’ It could just be an endearment like any other. _Or_ , Mikey could be pacing him step for step emotionally. _**Or**_ , come to think of it, Mikey could be _waaay_ ahead of him, and Sasha’s the densest fucker on the fucking planet, missing the neon signs because the Sin-Božji were strange when showing their affection so he couldn’t correctly interpret it. That Mikey cared for him wasn’t news. So it shouldn’t be so jarring to realise that Mikey too might be _in_ love with him. In fact, it makes sense. It makes more sense than anything else. What with Mikey breaking rules, pushing limits, trying to take care of himself and open up, _trying_.

_I **am** the densest fucker on the planet. He **is** in love with me. Have been for quite some time, hasn’t he? For how long?_

His brain is doing a step by step rewind, checking a box for everything that would count as evidence, from Mikey’s panic of losing the writing on his arm, Mikey telling him in bits and pieces about what he’s struggling with, Mikey wondering if he’d give Addi a ring too, Mikey accepting the ring, Mikey’s pictures, Mikey’s eagerness to please him, Mikey’s reaction to him coming back… Before that, in twin towns, when he accepted their ‘friendship’ despite the risks to them both, how Mikey’d gravitated towards him, how he’d accepted Sasha’s ‘no’, how he’d let Sasha live that night in the basement, how after the night they’d had a threesome, Mikey’d been awake and looking at him while he slept… If he thought about Mikey’s art diaries, Mikey has loved him since childhood, and must have fallen in love in twin towns, maybe even earlier. 

_Yeah, Sash. You’re dense. Couldn’t see the forest for all the trees._

The only thing that _didn’t_ fit with with this theory, was that Mikey sent him away. Sasha wonders _why_ he sent him away, if this was all true.

It changes everything and nothing. 

He’s staring on the dark screen on his phone. His brain is doing an episode recap so he could figure out what's important and predict what’ll happen next. Mitchell of course, has no idea that Sasha’s beating himself up for being blind to the obvious, due to being too close to the subject matter. “Good news?” he asks, snapping Sasha out of it.

“Very.”

“Was it your ladyfriend?”

“Yup.”

“The crazy one?”

“Mhm.”

“You sent her flowers and she agreed to send you nudes in return?”

Sasha smirks, looking at Mitchell smugly. That’s what the conversation must have sounded like, only hearing his side. “She did.”

Mitch does an impressed sturgeon face. “Nice trade off. I never got what’s so special about receiving flowers.”

“You don’t like getting em?”

“Wouldn’t know. Never gotten any.”

“Maybe you’d get it if you got some.”

“Doubtfully. They’ll die anyway. What? You like getting flowers?” Mitch says skeptically and gives Sasha a dubious look.

Sasha grins. He’s going to buy Mitch flowers. Like a corny gimmick. Guy’ll probably like it due to this conversation alone. If he doesn’t like the flowers, he’ll appreciate the joke. “Sure I do. So what if they die? I don’t enjoy summer less just because winter is coming.”

Mitchell snorts in amusement. Then the conversation slips into comfortable silence again. It lasts until they finally roll into town. Next up: Hunting monsters. Life is strange.

* * *


	15. Paranoia, Ghosts, and Other Sounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha and Mitchell dive into researching the possibly haunted house in New Mexico. Mitchell's way of getting under Sasha's skin makes him a bit paranoid. Also, he hears things he'd wished he hadn't heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got its name [from a song by SAFIA](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J5CDzhnMTMI). Although this chapter has very little to do with the song, and instead just literally relates to the title, I'm telling you - watch the video. When I heard this song and saw the video my mind went straight to Mikey.

* * *

**2014**

* * *

Summer

They check into a crappy motel to have a base. Mitch involves Bug to hack into the police database to get some history on the address, since Mitch knows there to be at least one violent death having happened in that house (according to his source). Apparently it was not the first one. The house was built in the fifties. There had been a homicide in it in the seventies, a man shot to death. He’d been shot by his ex girlfriend, who was sentenced to life in prison without possibility of parole. This was only mentioned in a little summary. Sasha guesses any paperwork about the murder is in storage and hasn’t been computerized. After that, there had been two more unsolved murders reported, one in ‘96, and one two years ago. Both those vics had been John Does―a Mexican and a black teenager―thus no high priority had been put in when there was absolutely zero leads. One had died by strangulation in a bedroom, and the other torn to shreds in the living room. Both deaths had taken place during night.

“So whatever resides there is dangerous. Ghost?” Mitch says, reading over Sasha’s shoulder by the little table they’ve set up the laptop on.

“Could be. But as far as we know, it could be anything. Since the supernatural is rejected as fantasies, when encountered with it, it may be dubbed as ghosts by default, because it’s easier to believe than demons, fairies, minor gods or whatever.”

“True. But I’m thinking, it’s something that doesn’t have to eat. And can stay dormant for a long time. That obviously doesn’t like to be disturbed. Like ghosts or spirits of some kind.”

“Or it could be nothing, just rumours started because the police couldn’t solve the cases. What was it the guy you spoke with said about the place?” Sasha asks.

“He’d been here during summer, and since the place was for sale, he decided to squat in it, right? During the night the temperature had suddenly dropped to freezing, and he’d heard strange things.”

“What things?”

“I don’t know, he didn’t say.”

“The temperature always drops during night.”

“Yeah, to what? Low 60’s? This guy described his breath misting in the air, and his teeth chattering from the cold. Just like you described on that job you did.”

Mitchell spoke in Fahrenheit, and it still took Sasha an extra second to rethink Fahrenheit to Celsius. But your breath didn’t mist from 20℃. “Fair enough. We’ll assume this is the real deal and dangerous as fuck. Let’s get started.”

First up is the realtor. The house is for sale, and has been for quite a while. They make arrangements to be shown the house and meet with the realtor at location. The house lies in a good middle class neighbourhood. It’s in fairly good condition, despite being abandoned for a year. White, two storeys, black tile roof. The lawn is covered with patchy tufts of dried grass. They wait outside in the driveway. The sun is beating down hard, and it’s 33 ℃ (91℉) out. Both of them have opted to leave their guns in the car, so they could wear only T-shirts. Sasha’s sticky with sweat already and wears pilot sunshades and a cowboy hat he bought in Texas as protection from the sun. He feels ridiculous in it, but it gives better protection than a cap.

Before they left the motel room Mitchell had stopped him and pulled a fucking makeup set from his pack, then―with Sasha’s curious permission―proceeded to make the bruise on Sasha’s jaw disappear like fucking magic. So for the first time in his life, Sasha’s wearing makeup. You can’t really see it either, but it’s not comfortable in this heat. It serves a purpose though. A bruise on the face will make people less inclined to trust you. The Croatoans are recruited for their individual specialities, but somehow they tended to identify as a group with other Croatoans with similar specialities. The divisions weren’t official―hammers, chameleons, hackers, fixers, to name a few―but often spoken of as they were. This was one little detail that reminded Sasha that he, as often as he did undercover jobs and did them well, was a fixer, _not_ a chameleon, like Mitch. He vowed to learn as much as he could of the art of makeup and disguise from Mitch, because it’s fucking useful.

The realtor is a well dressed woman who talks a mile a minute with a fake smile plastered on her face. They introduce themselves as brothers, telling her Mitchell’s girlfriend is from New Mexico and wants to move back here. Mitch and she are getting married and moving in together and that’s why they’re looking at houses. Sasha is seriously entertained, seeing Mitch step into the role as madly in love, gushing about his wife to be. Especially knowing Mitch isn’t into romance.

The house is fully furnished. According to the realtor (when asked about it) the owner had to move quickly because of a family crisis and then found it easier to just sell everything together. Sasha internally calls bullshit. He’d put his money on if the house is haunted, something scared them away and they didn’t dare going back to get their stuff. It’s a fairly nice house. Four bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, kitchen, dining room, toilet and laundry room downstairs. Plenty of closet space. Not too much that needs to be renovated. 

After they’d said goodbye to the realtor, they take a stroll through the neighbourhood. There’s a woman slightly above their age, hanging laundry in her yard, watching them suspiciously. So naturally, they walk up to the fence by her yard.

“Excuse me, ma’am. We were thinking of buying a house in this neighbourhood, and we’re wondering if you’d tell us about it?” Mitchell says with a friendly smile.

The woman’s face shows barely veiled disgust as she answers. Sasha wonders why. “This is a conservative neighbourhood.”

“That’s what we were hoping, ma’am,” Sasha says. “I’m James Porter, and this is my brother Jack. His fiancée just got offered a job in town.”

“Oh. You’re _brothers_ ,” the woman exclaims with a smile, thawing up right away and solving the mystery of her previous disgust. “That’s lovely. You’ll like it here. The people living here are decent folks. And not a single nigger in the neighbourhood.”

Sasha thinks she has a very bad grasp of the meaning of the word ‘decent’, considering her having shown both homophobia and racism in just a few sentences, but nevertheless smiles. “Sounds perfect. We were just looking at the house down at number 33. It looks nice, but it seemed like the realtor was hiding something.”

“Oh yes, you bet she was! You shouldn’t buy that house. The Hendersons’ house is for sale. It’s number 51. And Coopers’ down on 12 too. You should look at those instead.”

“Why?” Mitch asks.

“Bad things are going on in that house. If you ask me they should tear it down. It’s ruining the neighbourhood’s reputation.” The woman smacks her lips in distaste. “Not that I believe it myself, but they say it’s cursed, or haunted. And haunted or not, strange things happen in that house.”

“Strange how?”

“Lots of things. Would you like to have some lemonade and I could tell you about it?” 

“Yes, ma’am,” they answer as one. “That would be nice, thank you,” Sasha adds with a charming smile.

Apparently, they’d found the neighbourhood gossip central. The woman, Margaret, is a widow who loves the sound of her own voice and is delighted about having an audience. She is head of the neighbourhood watch and holds a bible study group on Wednesdays (if they’re interested to join should they move here.) They sit in the shade on her porch and drink very tasty homemade lemonade. She tells them all about the house and its recent past inhabitants, like the police reports hadn’t. The last owners had a teenage daughter who hanged herself a month after moving in. The parents moved away in a rush. The owner before that was a man who had gone mad, according to Margaret. “You’d never think it when you met him from the start. But then he started talking about hearing voices and strange sounds at night. Mad as a hatter. Came running out of the house butt naked one night, screaming in fright and refusing to go back in. Before that, another woman shot herself in there. Right in the face. I’ll tell you boys, I’m not superstitious, but something strange is going on in that house. Maybe a gas leak? I don’t know. I think they should tear it down. It attracts teenagers that come here, trying to be brave by staying a night in a so called haunted house. It’s no wonder if they think they hear things, smoking weed and drinking beer. They always make a mess.” Margaret smacks her lips in distaste. “Not like my Joe. He is such a good boy. He’s in California now, studying architecture at Berkeley. His father, Eric, bless his soul, never got to see Joe go to college. My Eric was a Marine…”

Margaret doesn’t need much encouragement to keep talking. Getting her to stop, however, proves harder. But finally they manage to extract themselves and bid her farewell. By then Sasha’s itching for a smoke so bad he wants to punch someone in the face. It’s bad and he hates it. He doesn’t like being controlled by an addiction. The only thing good about it, is that his brain is screaming for a cigarette, _not_ drugs. And nicotine doesn’t tamper with the brain as much as weed or hardcore drugs do. He takes up his pack of red Marlboro as soon as they’re out of sight. Mitch pulls out a pack of his own, also red Marlboro. Sasha wonders if Mitch is a real smoker, or just do it to copy him. He might have just held back in Sasha’s presence before Sasha pulled up a pack after the briefing this round. That he had a lighter meant nothing. It’s just sound tactics to keep a pack and a lighter on your person at all times, if you wish to extract information from a smoker.

It’s such a peeve, not knowing what’s real about Mitchell and what’s not. He needs to know. To get Mitch to break character. Be himself when they’re out of public. He wants to know if he likes _Mitchell_ or just the mirror image of himself that Mitch supplies. The only thing Sasha’s sure of, is that Yippi was real and that Mitch loved him, and that Mitch favours the word ‘crap’ before ‘shit’. If he doesn’t figure Mitchell out, he’ll never figure out if he is IA or not.

Sasha studies Mitch as Mitch taps a cigarette out, lights it, and puts the pack back in his pocket. He watches Mitch take a drag on the cigarette, holding it far in by the base of the relaxed fingers. It forces the hand to fan out and cover his mouth and lower face while he inhales, and then go back to be cupped in relaxation when he lowers his hand. It’s Sasha’s preferred way to smoke. He’d started smoking that way in his teens because he thought it looked cooler and more macho. Back then he’d given a shit about what people thought of him, but not for tactical reasons. It had been real fucking important not to look like a sissy. How old was he when he started smoking? 13? 14? Back then he hated gays and would beat the shit out of anyone who’d call him that. It’s funny how much you can change over the years. Young Sasha had no chill.

_Let’s play a game, Mitch. Reverse this Simon Says. You’re in the lead from now on._

_Hah. Maybe I won’t be the only one of us that’s paranoid from now on._

In his mind he brings up the picture of the first drag of smoke he’d seen Mitch take. Cigarette held out by the fingertips, pinky and ring finger bent in towards the palm. He takes a cigarette from his pack and lights it, holding it the way Mitch had done that first time. It takes about thirty seconds before Mitchell notices Sasha’s switched it up. Sasha sees when he notices because of the tiny flicker of surprise on Mitchell’s face. He sees it because he’s been looking for it, but it’s really small. Mitchell doesn’t switch along with him this time. But the game has just started…

* * *

“I’m hungry. Let’s go eat and discuss what we need to bring with us on our sleepover,” Sasha says when they’re back in the car, driving through the town center.

“Sure. What do you want to eat?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you decide?”

“How about steak?”

More often than not, Sasha would suggest a steakhouse when it was time for dinner. He likes beef, and Mitch knows it. Which is why he says “I don’t feel like it today. Pick something else.”

The town is a rather large one, and here in the center there are quite a few restaurants for Mitch to choose from. It’s all part of the game.

“How about pizza?” Mitch suggests.

Pizza is another thing they often eat. It’s convenient and readily available in most places. Honestly, Sasha isn’t a big fan of the pizzas served over here. The bread is too thick. But then again, once you eat pizza in Italy, there’s no going back. He often suggests pizza because it’s simple. Now, he’ll discard any suggestion _he_ often makes. “No. Something else.”

Mitchell frowns thoughtfully, drives slowly up the street and watches the restaurants they pass. Greek, Mexican, a burger joint, Chinese… He stops the car outside of a Sushi place and looks at Sasha with raised eyebrows. “Sushi?”

They say sushi is something you either love or hate. Sasha doesn’t agree. He’s neutral to it. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes bad. (And if you get really bad sushi it’ll take a while to rebuild trust enough to eat it, as with any bad seafood.) He and Mitch had never eaten it together. “Sure. Why not?”

They enter the restaurant and sit down opposite each other at a table. Sasha’s phone vibrates for incoming message just as their waitress approaches. “Order for me too,” Sasha says and pulls up the phone.

“What do you want?” Mitch asks, but Sasha makes a dismissive gesture, leaving decisions to Mitchell.

Instead he opens the message―from Mikey―and sucks in breath. The picture is not made with pencils, but acrylics maybe. He has to zoom in to assure himself it isn’t a photo. Zoomed in, it’s obvious it’s a painting. The paint makes it vibrant, like coloured pencils can’t be. The two main fish in the picture are so realistic they seem to be three dimensional, but the rest is simplified slightly, details are removed to the basics needed to make it look real unless you look closely as Sasha’s doing now. The picture is of a grey/blue fish with black stripes (female) and a bright yellow one (male, according to Sasha’s research before buying). It looks like they’re almost kissing, down by the light sand. The background shows other fishes in bright blues, white, gray, yellow, and black. 

He taps out a reply: `How big is this painting?`

The reply is instant. `4.9 ft x 4.9 ft`

`It’s absolutely astounding! I love it! I’m fascinated with how you simplify everything around the center motif, and manage to pinpoint what details you need to keep, to still have it look so realistic. It’s vibrant and lifelike, and looks so playful. Would you consider hanging it in the bedroom?`

`If you want?`

`I want you to. I really like it!`

`It’s my second time working with acrylic. I’ve never painted anything this big before. It’s a lot harder than I thought. I had to start over several times.`

The statement comes paired with memories of the vulnerability Mikey has shown when he’s showed Sasha his art before. It’s hard to grasp that Mikey can be nervous and insecure about something he’s so breathtakingly _good_ at.

` The end result is fantastic. I’m proud of you.`

Mitchell, who Sasha’s been ignoring up until now, kicks his foot under the table, drawing attention to himself now the waitress has left. “Finally got that nude, huh?” he asks with a smirk when Sasha looks up.

“I did, and no, you can’t see it.”

Mitch sniggers. “I wasn’t going to ask. With that look on your face, you’re head over heels for her, and you don’t perv on a bro’s girlfriend.”

Sasha scowls and puts his phone back in his pocket. “What look?”

Mitchell’s face goes all soft smile and sappy looking, holding his hand out and looking at it in an imitation of Sasha looking at his phone. 

Sasha scoffs, making Mitch laugh. “That’s a bit of an exaggeration,” Sasha protests.

“Yeah, no it ain’t. If that’s how you look at the chick’s nudes you’re about to propose, not jack off.”

Sasha snorts, then quirks his lip in a little lopsided smirk. “I can’t exactly pull my dick out here, now can I?”

“True, but with that look, I should help you find her an engagement ring, not a cat,” Mitch insists with a teasing grin, then nods a thanks at the waitress that comes by with the two beers he ordered for them.

“Believe me, I’m never marrying this girl. She ain’t exactly the monogamous type, and I ain’t playing second fiddle to none,” Sasha says and takes a swig of his beer. He doesn’t mind playing second fiddle to someone who haven't got his heart in their hand. Then he could check out any time he wants. But Mikey’s wormed himself in too deep. “She’s a friend. And sure, recently I might have developed feelings that go beyond friends with benefits. But unless I get a promise she won’t be getting her freak on with others, she ain’t getting no vows from me either, you get what I’m sayin?”

_But maybe, if Mikey’s in love with me, he could agree to a promise of fidelity?_

_’...I can’t make promises...I’m not always in control…’_

_Then who is, Mikey boy?_

“You’re not one for open relationships, I take it?” Mitch says, thoroughly entertained.

“Sure I am. If I don’t give a shit,” Sasha says with another dismissive gesture. “But now I do. And my number one priority is to get her mentally stable enough to ride me like a fucking cowgirl and enjoy it. Our relationship status can remain undefined until then. Because now at least I know no other guy’s gonna stick his dick in her. But after I’ve cracked that nut I’m gonna fucking castrate anyone dumb enough to try mounting her,” he sneers.

_Sam. I have to make an exception for him. I don’t like it. But Sam is the key to getting Mikey and Luci back together. And once Mikey’s sided with Luci he won’t go back to_ Otac _. Then I can fucking finally introduce Mikey to Bendi and be sure of her safety. Mikey will love Bendi and Doug will be relieved to have Mikey on his side. Mikey’s the best with kids._

_Fucking Winchesters. Such a nuisance, both of them._

Whether Sam topped or bottomed didn’t matter. The thought of him being with Mikey in any way, made jealousy boil in Sasha’s blood. And the more he thought about Mikey being with others, the less comfortable was he with it. Even women. Unless they shared. He’s still fine with the thought of just watching Mikey fuck women. But not with him doing it while Sasha’s away.

“Speaking of mental stability,” Sasha says, not allowing Mitch time to answer. “The cat. It’s a good idea. Do you want to help me pick it out? You don’t have to. Just giving me the idea is enough. Thinking of our conversation the other night, I don’t want to force you into a situation that is hard for you.”

Mitchell takes a sip of his beer then narrows his eyes suspiciously at Sasha with a bemused smile like he’s trying to figure something out. 

”What?” Sasha asks, unable to comprehend the reaction. 

“Did I do something wrong, to make you stop believe in my competence?”

“Not at all. Why would you think that?” _Because you see helping me as a token of my trust. And now you think it's being withdrawn_ , Sasha’s brain supplies as an answer. “On the contrary. The cat thing is private business, not work. I'd appreciate the help. But because I respect and value you, I don’t want you to feel forced to do something that may be hard for you in the wake of losing Yippi. It’s not an order. It won't reflect on how I value you as a partner.”

This doesn't make Mitch any more at ease. On the contrary, he shifts in his seat, taps his beer bottle and shifts again. “Okay … but it's no problem. I'd like to help. The only thing I don't like is the risk that your psycho girlfriend will torture the cat.”

Mitchell’s persisting discomfort is confusing to Sasha, but he doesn’t call Mitch out on it. “I've thought about it and found a way to minimise the risk.”

“How?”

“I'll buy the cat for myself and ask her to babysit it for me. She's much less likely to harm it if it’s mine. Plus, she's more likely to see to its need of affection if it's mine.” Sasha thinks of the risk of Mitchell ever visiting Mikey, putting two and two together. So he adds “If it doesn't work out I'll ditch the cat at one of the божја браћа. They've got staff that can see to its needs.” With that Mikey has an alibi for having the cat.

Mitchell chuckles in bemusement. “You can just dump a cat in the home of one of the божја браћа, and expect it to be cared for?”

Sasha shrugs nonchalantly. As incredible as it might sound, he could probably do that with _any_ of the божја браћа. Even Bael or Babyface, despite their dislike for Croatoans. However, very few of them would take _personal_ care of the cat. Also, there was another thing to consider if that was to work. “Comes with the A list territory. Also, to be on the safe side, I'll have to choose a snooty pedigree breed. Preferably something with short hair so it'll look fabulous even without daily brushing. You got any suggestions?” That’s the thing. Any cat residing in a бог брат‘s home needs to be classified as a luxury item. It might even make a difference to Mikey. 

Yet again, Mitch is uncomfortable. But this time he’s trying to hide it. Most likely it's because the reminder that his status makes Sasha closer to the божја браћа, giving him privileges. “How about a siamese? Most people know them to be rich folks’ pets.”

“It's those skinny ones with face and paws dipped in chocolate, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“A siamese it is then.”

Their food arrives. Mitchell has ordered those huge mixed platters with sushi for the both of them. Sasha drinks his beer and waits until Mitchell starts eating until he eats. He watches to see if Mitch chooses utensils or sticks, then grabs the sticks and eats exactly like Mitchell, only eating the same types of sushi as him, and adding extra wasabi, just like him. It may seem like a stupid game considering he’s just shared very personal information, but the devil's in the details. He’s discreet about it too, mirroring Mitchell in a natural way during conversation about what they've learned about the house today. It amounts to the same effect as when Mitchell mirrors him, making them seem very close, like the brothers they pose as. But Mitch has learned nothing about Sasha’s preferences when it comes no sushi. Not only that, as Sasha’s planning to keep this up, Mitch may start to doubt the information he’s already got. 

“So we spend a night in there and see what happens. What do we need to bring?” Sasha asks.

“Since we don’t know what we’re dealing with, a machete and silver bullets to start with. And salt.”

They’ve already agreed that chopping the head of vampires seems like a legit way to kill them, as well as chopping legs off (or shooting knees to a pulp) ought to stop them. Silver bullets is what the shop owner had shot at the presumed werewolf. Since Sasha thinks he knew what he was talking about due to the ring working (it could’ve just been a fluke), silver bullets may kill _something_. And then there was the salt. “Yes but how much do we need to bring, and how do we use it?” 

“A lot?” Mitch answers with a stumped expression. “Maybe we’re supposed to sprinkle it and chant something?”

Sasha’s lips begin to twitch in amusement. “You go ahead and do that. I’ll sit back and watch.”

Mitch chuckles. “Got it. No chanting.”

“They’d heard voices, right? Maybe we can talk to it? Find out what it wants?”

“If it speaks English….”

“Hey, I had a thought,” Sasha says. “We’re fumbling in the dark here. Everything we do is experimental. It would be a good idea to write down what we try, whether it works or not, and the results.” Mitch nods his agreement, so Sasha goes on. “I’m thinking we should get notebooks or something. If we check something out when we’re apart, we notify each other where we’re going and why. If one of us end up dying while on an investigation, the other one can retrieve the notebook from the body or from the police evidence. We won’t have to go around asking the same questions again to figure out what we’re up against.”

“Sounds good. Except that dying part,” Mitch says and they share a smile. “Unless if whatever killed us stole the notebook.”

“Fair enough, but then at least then we’ll know we’re up against something intelligent enough to destroy evidence.” Sasha chuckles and shakes his head. “This would be so much easier if we had someone to ask. Maybe we should put an ad on Craig’s list,” he jokes.

Mitchell laughs. “Teacher in Supernatural Hunting wanted.”

“And in the ad ‘The machete and silver bullets I get, but how the _fuck_ do I use the salt???’ Three question marks,” Sasha says grinning.

“Fuck, but why not?”

It’s Sasha’s turn to laugh. “You realise how many weird-ass answers we might get?”

“Yeah, sure. But who knows? We might get a legit answer.”

“Ask Bug to set up a dummy email for us. Fumblinginthedark@whatsdeadshouldstaydead.com, password: trinity. And enter the ad while he’s at it.” Sasha has a hard time keeping from laughing while he says it. Mitchell takes up his phone and chuckling sends a text to Bug. Once it’s sent they both break out laughing. They keep coming up with more and more idiotic email addresses on the theme, drinking beers and laughing.

Twenty minutes later Bug texts back, having done as he’s told and giving them the details needed to access their dummy mail to read any answer they might get. They practically die laughing and are politely asked to leave the restaurant or quiet down. Sasha doesn’t take offense. 

They leave and Sasha lights up a cigarette. This time he holds it between thumb and forefinger, inside of his cupped hand―the way you do when you need to hide the glow of the cherry from potential enemies during night time. Mitchell copies him. Sasha decides he'll keep this way up for a while, then switch. Just to keep Mitchell on his toes. 

They split up. Mitchell goes to acquire silver bullets, Sasha goes to get everything else. Sasha reflects that maybe placing an ad isn’t such a bad idea, and maybe they should place big ads in large newspapers too. Write something only a killer of supernatural things would get.

* * *

They’ve acquired what they need. Tomorrow night they’ll enter the house. It’s quite late and Sasha goes for a walk to call Mikey. The temperature outside is finally dropping to a comfortable level around 20 ℃. Their motel is in the outskirt of town and he wanders towards the surrounding nature. There’s a couple of trees growing by the roadside but beyond that a dry rocky plain with patchy tufts of grass stretches towards the horizon. Cicadas fill the air with their singing. He wanders down on the plain where he sits down on a rock to make his call, enjoying the view of the setting sun painting everything pink and burning gold, while casting long shadows. 

He wishes Michael was here with him, sitting in front of him on the rock, so he could wrap his arms around him, lean his chin on his shoulder, and they could watch the sun use nature as a fancy-ass colouring book together. He sighs wistfully and makes the call.

“Michael Filiusdei,” Mikey answers and it takes Sasha about three seconds to wish he hadn't answered, based on the sounds in the background. Mikey sounds slightly out of breath and in the background he can hear a girl giggle and another one moan.

“Michael,” Sasha says curtly, jaws clenching. 

“Aleksandr, darling!” Mikey exclaims. He has the bell-clear pitch that comes deeper down from his throat. It’s funny (no, it's not) but Sasha’s started to name the different pitches. From the very beginning he'd just made a difference between little boy Mikey, бог брат Michael, and insane Mikey. The closer they'd gotten, the more he'd started to differentiate. By now he had catalogued five or six different modes Mikey could be in. Бог брат Michael came in two forms, for example. Both who knew they were superior to everyone else, full of arrogance and demand. But one carried the world on his shoulders, and the other one―the one he's currently speaking to―is a spoiled brat with no regards to anyone's feelings but his own. This one was the only one Sasha wanted to beat the living shit out of. 

He’d like to tell himself that this wasn't the real Mikey, but that would be a lie. Every aspect of Michael was as real as the other, and truth to be told, even this side of him held allure. This was the side of him that flared with indignant rage when somebody mistreated Sasha. This was the part that knew no limitations. This was a side he shared with all his brothers―insane, cruel, and _extremely_ powerful. 

Little boy Mikey was the core of Michael, the basic personality he’d shown as a child before _Otac_ ’s teachings had started taking hold. Mikey could not have survived, had he not been able to integrate this part of him. He would have died by a broken heart with the cards life had dealt him. All people have different parts of themselves. The thing about Mikey that set him apart from most, were the clear lines between the aspects of his personality. Like the other night, when it sounded like he'd just handed the phone over to someone else. Sasha stoves this reflection far in the back of his mind to mull over later. Right now it’s jealousy and resentment taking over.

Michael’s not aware that Sasha’s recoiling from what he’s hearing in the background, and goes on talking when Sasha doesn’t respond. “You should get yourself over here. We’re having a party. You’ll never guess what I'm doing right now.”

“I can’t believe you answered your phone,” a female says in the background.

“Shut up. It’s an important call,” Mikey answers her annoyedly.

_Important, my ass. You didn’t even look at the caller ID, did you?_

“This was bad timing. We’ll talk another day,” Sasha says, wanting to end the conversation right away. 

“What are you talking about? There’s nothing wrong with the timing. I―” Michael sucks in a breath. “ _Oh, shit_. That’s good distraction, baby. Keep that up,” he says, but not to Sasha. A girl giggles. “What are you laughing about? Shut up and kiss her instead. Yeah, that's it. Good girl.” A couple of hitched breaths and then Michael speaks up again. “Sorry, about that, darling. There’s a devoted girl here who decided to take a ride. Where were we?” His voice is a bit strained and amused.

“I was about to hang up on you,” Sasha says through gritted teeth. He can hear his own pulse in his ears as anger mounts along with the rhythmic creaking background sound, supposedly caused by the girl riding Mikey. One of the girls says something he can’t hear and a male voice answers, but it _isn’t Michael._

“Like hell you are, croat,” Michael says with that lofty бог брат voice, laced with an undertone of anger at Sasha’s ‘disrespect’.

“You _don’t own me_ ,” Sasha growls. Which is the condition to them having the relationship they do. Without it, it falls to pieces. 

Michael laughs. When he speaks, the condescending, amused smile carries through. “Darling, I kinda _do―_ ”

Sasha hangs up with a sneer and blocks all incoming calls without waiting to see if Michael has anything else to say. 

_Burn in Hell!_

_’...I can’t make promises… I’m not always in control…’_

_You better learn to control yourself, because the days I let you control me are long gone,_ бог брат. 

He makes another call, this time to Peters. “Hey, it’s Chaadayev. Are they in his apartment?”

Peters understands who he’s talking about right away. “Yes, Sir.”

“Who are they? Anyone important?”

“No, Sir. Бог брат Michael decided to go out and have a drink at KayCee’s two hours ago. An hour ago he brought two women and one man back here. He allowed us to do our job. No drugs and no weapons. I did a quick background check. They’re nobodies. A nurse, an architect, and a waiter.”

It’s good news that Michael lets Peters do his job at least. Not that it does anything to help Sasha’s mood. “Did he go to the club by himself?”

“No, Sir. I accompanied him, along with Jeff Morgan.” Jeffrey Morgan is another of the Croatoans on Michael’s security team. This too was good news that Sasha currently doesn’t give a shit about. Still, he asks the questions.

“He always lets you tag along when he goes somewhere?”

“Yes, Sir. Ever since I was appointed. Sometimes only one of us, but there’s none of the slack from my predecessor’s time.”

“Good. If Michael’s guests make it alive out of that apartment, make sure it was a temporary respite.”

“Yes, Sir. Unless the бог брат contradicts your order, Sir, they won’t live a full day after they leave.”

“Then don’t fucking _ask_ him about it,” Sasha snaps. Up until now he’d managed to keep his voice level, but now the anger comes to a fore.

Peters chuckles. “I won’t.” Which is a really fucking surprising answer, that Sasha would have put more weight on following up with questions about why, if he wasn’t in emotional turmoil right now. “Do you have any particular instructions about method?”

“No. Just get it done.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Sasha bids Peters a good night and hangs up. His gut is twisting in discomfort. He feels slightly nauseous. Anger burns hotter than those feelings, covering them up.

_I can’t stop Mikey from fucking around, but he can’t stop me from placing a death sentence on anyone touching what’s_ mine _without my permission._

* * *

Mitch lies on his bed watching TV. He eyes Sasha warily as Sasha comes inside like silent thunder and stomps right through the room into the bathroom. Sasha washes the blood off his knuckles and cleans the bark splinters out of the self inflicted wounds from taking out his anger on a nearby tree. 

When he comes back out he goes to his bag and rummages around until he finds his packet of condoms. He straightens up and turns towards Mitchell. “I'm getting laid. You coming?”

Mitchell does a surprised sturgeon face, shuts the TV off and gets off the bed. “I'm not one to say no to pussy,” he says with a smirk. He doesn’t ask what's up. If he did, Sasha wouldn’t tell him.

* * *

24 hours later they’re breaking into the house, both wearing ear bud communication devices so they’re able to talk even if they’re on different floors of the house. Sasha _still_ have incoming calls blocked, except for Peters, Doug and anybody on the American virus team. He had his burner phone on him too, and that one is open for all calls, but Mikey doesn’t have that number. As a way of getting Mikey better, this is possibly not a good thing to do. Sasha knows that. But he can only be understanding up to a point. And until his own ruffled feathers have smoothed down somewhat, any contact between them would set them back so much further. The tactical long term thinking part of him has put up a huge stop sign on talking with Mikey as long as the impulse to spit in his face lingers. Logic and emotions don’t mix well. Words, aimed at Mikey’s weakest points, that will hurt, harm, break, rests on his tongue when thinking of speaking with Mikey. The long term goal is to build Mikey up, make him prioritize what his heart tells him―not what _Otac_ had taught him he should think and want. Lashing out with his own pain would not help achieving that goal.

So he kept radio silence, seething in resentment at being so emotionally vulnerable. 

In the meantime, he and Mitch had geared themselves up. Bullet-/stab-proof vests, guns with silencers (as not to draw attention from outside should they need to use them), one with silver bullets each, one with regular bullets, knives, mag lights, lighters, and a bag of salt. The salt was still a mystery when it came to how the fuck they’d use it. _If_ it could be used to begin with. There’d been no (legit seeming) reply to their Craig’s list ad. Not that they had expected any, but it would have been nice. Sasha still has some condoms lying around in his pocket from last night’s escapades. Mitch had teased him about being insatiable, but the truth was that he’d shifted violent energy into sex, rather than unleash his anger upon some poor mudmonkeys that didn’t deserve it. He’d kept his exterior amicable, by all means. But few times before had he felt so inclined to switch into violence towards the persons he was fucking. If that had been his regular mindset, he’d fitted right in on the trafficking gig. He’s glad that he’s self-disciplined enough to act as he would had he not been as upset as he was.

They search through the empty house, finding nothing. It’s only 10 PM. All the deaths they knew about had occurred during nighttime. They settle down in the living room in front of the empty fireplace and Mitchell takes a deck of cards out of the thigh pocket of the cargo pants they’d both had opted to wear. Sasha smiles appreciatively, while he lights a fire in the fireplace (that the realtor had insisted was fully functional). “It’s stuff like that that makes you the perfect partner,” he remarks, pokes in the fire a bit with one of the four decorative iron pokers found in a stand beside the fireplace, and then settles on the rug opposite Mitch.

Mitch chuckles. “Yeah, well. I figured we might be in for a lot of fruitless waiting.” He shuffles the deck and deals the cards. They play and shoot bullshit while keeping vigil.

Mitch prediction was spot on. At 2 AM nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Sasha stands up and stretches. “I’m not too keen on the idea, but maybe we should split up? I need to take a piss.”

Mitchell chuckles. “Yeah. But you know, in true horror movie fashion, that’s when crap is gonna happen.”

“Mh.” Sasha shrugs a shoulder and makes an amused sturgeon face. “Shit might happen. And fair enough. You’re welcome to accompany me and watch.”

“Fuck off,” Mitch says grinning.

“Maybe we’re on the wrong floor anyway. The living room isn’t the only place people have died in.”

“Take the upstairs bathroom then. I’ll stay here. Come back if you don’t find Caspar.”

“Will do,” Sasha says and ruffles Mitchell’s hair as he passes him.

Sasha’s heart is actually speeding up a bit in fear as he lights his mag light and makes his way upstairs. He wonders if Mitch too feels fearful at the moment. It’s the bit about not having the faintest clue about what they’re up against that does it. In the upstairs hallway there are no windows so he switches on the light. Not having to rely on his flashlight calms him a bit. He makes a watchful round of the bedrooms, pulling curtains closed if they’re thick enough to hide lamplight from any watchers on the streets. He switches on the lamps in those rooms too. There’s only stillness and the odd creaks and sounds that can be heard in any house during night. “Nothing out of the ordinary in the bedrooms. I’ve lit the lamps where it can’t be seen from the street. Everything clear downstairs?” he says.

“Just regular spookiness of sleeping houses,” Mitch replies, voice coming clear in the earbud. “I’ll make a round down here and see what lights can be switched on.”

“Do that. I’ll hit the John.”

It’s comforting to have Mitchell in his ear, getting confirmation that nothing’s going on. Mitch is humming softly and he can hear it both in his earbud and lowly from him moving around downstairs. Sasha goes to the bathroom and opens the door. There’s no window here, so he switches the light on and pulls the shower curtain aside. (Just to be sure there’s no psycho killer being on the other side.) The bathtub has been beautifully staged with three old fashioned jars of bath salts. They’re labeled with pretty carton labels tied to them and have different colours and herbs inside. There are even two block candles of different height in soft pastel colour. It looks quite romantic and inviting. Sasha thinks the realtor was dumb to not make sure the shower curtain was pulled aside when she showed the house. For him, the tub would have been a selling point. ….if the house wasn’t haunted that is.

His heart is beating more calmly again. He turns around and goes to the toilet, then deliberates for a second. He opts to take a chance, unbuckles, pulls his pants down, and sits down. He puts his flashlight on the floor for the time being. He’s left the door open and keeps alert as he takes a dump. He hears Mitch chuckle at the audible splashing sound his activity makes. There’s not much toilet paper on the roll, but enough to dry himself. He flushes and stands up, pulling up his pants, when the lights start to flicker.

At the same time he hears Mitchell go “ _Oh, fuck!_ ” in his earbud. “Temperature is dropping rapidly down here. Something’s going o― OH FUCK! _**SASH** ―_” Mitchell cuts out and only static can be heard in the bud, all the while there’s a crash from downstairs.

Sasha’s heart is jumping in fright. “I’m coming!” he shouts and grabs his flashlight heading for the door, only to have the door slammed in his face. He rebounds into the bathroom, shaking his head to try to clear it. It didn’t hurt much as the hit had been on his forehead. He reaches for the door handle and tries to open the door but it won’t budge despite the lock never having turned. “ _Fuck!_ ” The lights are flickering even worse now and he can feel the temperature dropping. He takes a few steps back to be able to kick the door open. Trying to use his shoulder won’t do since the lock isn’t what’s holding the door closed. He’ll have to break the wood. He quickly buttons his pants, heart in his throat. It won’t do, having his pants fall down around his ankles in a situation such as this. His skin is getting goosepimples from the cold and his breath―coming in rapid puffs―is turning to fog.

He kicks at the door once. He tries to kick a second time, but something unseen punches him in the chest and flings him backward. He lands hard hitting his back on the edge of the bathtub, grunting in pain.

“Fuck sake! Get the fuck away from me!” he says angrily, letting anger burn at his fear. There’s nothing there, nothing to see in the flickering light.

_I’m not gonna die like this!_

From downstairs he can faintly hear Mitchell call out. “Bullets doesn’t work! Silver doesn’t work!”

_I’M NOT GONNA DIE LIKE THIS!!!_

* * *


	16. Monster of the Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha and Mitch tackles ghosts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Note:**  
>  I'm not following Supernatural lore 100%. Any methods or behaviours in here are loosely based on SPN, but if it diverges, I'm yelling AU. ;)

_I’M NOT GONNA DIE LIKE THIS!!!_

Sasha scrambles to his feet, heaving himself up with the help of the bath tub. He’s stumped about what to use as a weapon since guns won’t work. His heart is beating frantically. Somewhere in the house he hears a female voice crying, frantically pleading for mercy. He’s frozen, not from fear, but from indecision about what to do. For once he sees no solution. There’s nothing there. There’s nothing _there_. How the fuck do you fight something you can’t see. There’s a lot of theories flying through Sasha’s head. The punch he’d gotten in his chest had felt like hands. Solid. If it was something solid he could avoid it, if not fight it. The invisibility is a problem. He remembers how movies deal with invisible humans. Clouds of flour for an instance. 

Bathrooms aren’t known for containing flour. But maybe baby powder? A quick glance around reveals nothing. Rain. Water. Sasha grabs the shower hose and quickly turns on the water, turning the nozzle towards the door. 

_Fucking hell!_

The water actually hits something. A shape. A human shape. Female.

It’s just standing there, blocking the door. Arms limp by its side. The effect of the flickering lights and the shower spray rebounding where it shouldn’t is frightening, but it still calms Sasha a notch since he can _see_ what he’s dealing with. (Kind of.)

“What do you want?” he asks.

There’s no answer. The crying from another nearby room gets louder, as does the pleading. 

_Please. Please, no. Please. I won’t tell. I won’t tell anyone. Please just let me go. Please._

“Lady, you better move. I need to get to my partner downstairs,” Sasha says, surprised at how firm his voice is. He’s scared shitless.

**NO**

The voice―the same voice that’s pleading for mercy somewhere else―seems to vibrate straight inside in his head, making the static in his earbud worse. He wonders why the ghost interferes with the electricity. Magnetic field perhaps? It’s not knocking electricity out completely, just interfering. And why does the temperature drop? He wishes he was an expert in physics. If he could figure out how the ghost works he can ‘shut it off’. Maybe it draws energy from outside and by doing so somehow makes atoms around it move slower, thus drop temperature. He wonders if an electromagnetic pulse would damage or make it stronger. None of these thoughts help him. They fly through his head fast. It’s the effect of the adrenaline surge, when time seems to slow.

“Yes, lady. So step aside or I will hurt you,” Sasha informs her, cackling hysterically inside but keeping a cool exterior. He wonders if she can read minds since she can talk inside his head. If so, he’s doomed. Bluffing doesn’t work if the other player can see your cards.

**NO!**

Of all the stupid times to think of Castiel, this happens to be one.

_That asshole would know what to do. He could create weapons out of fucking everything!_

The ghost starts becoming more solid, turning visible to the naked eye. Still transparent, but the water in no longer necessary to see her. Her image flickers back and forth between healthy looking and badly bruised and beaten. Her clothing and hairstyle is typical for the seventies. She’s in her early twenties. She doesn’t look angry, more just empty, scared, sad.

He fumbles behind himself for one of the bath salts, drops the shower hose in the tub, uncorks the lid of the jar and throws its content towards the ghost.

The woman screeches when the salt hits her and then―

―gone.

The lights go back to glowing steadily and the temperature is back to normal. The static in his earbud lingers, but it’s flickering, cut off sounds are coming through.

“No fucking way, it’s that simple,” Sasha mutters to himself, eyes wide. The shower hose is writhing in the bathtub and it takes getting sprayed by cold water to snap out of his _what-the-fuck?_ moment. He sputters and reaches to shut the water off.

_She can’t be dead. It’s too easy._

Whatever just happened, salt had hurt the ghost. He grabs the two remaining jars of bath salt, adding to his stash that includes the bag in the large pocket on his thigh. He wishes he had some way to shoot the salt, for a more accurate, further range. He looks around. Maybe it’s the previous though of Castiel that gives him the idea. He fishes a condom out of his pocket and grabs the empty toilet roll while setting the two bath salt jars down. He opens the condom wrapper with his teeth and deftly unrolls it over the toilet roll. Then he opens one of the bath salt jars and pours a load of salt into his new missile weapon. He used to make these with balloons to shoot gravel and marbles for the божја браћа when they were kids. A condom might not work as well as balloons due to the stickiness and extra flexibility, but it’s worth a shot. Just flinging salt will scatter the grains too much.

He tries the door handle and the door opens without so much as a creak, revealing the lamps shining brightly in the corridor. He squeezes the two jars of salt between his elbow and midriff without closing the lid of the one he used to load his toilet roll, and leaves the bathroom with the condom pulled back, ready to fire. He reflects that he must look ridiculous, moving on high alert, holding a condomed bogroll like an assault rifle. From downstairs he hears crashes and Mitchell laughing with that hysterical edge people have when they’re scared shitless and nearing tears. “I’m coming!” he calls out, letting Mitch know he’s still alive.

He hurries towards the staircase, but when he’s almost there the lights flicker and the temperature drops rapidly. 

That’s all the warning he gets.

The force that hits him in the back is beyond human strength and the body armour he’s wearing may be the only thing that prevents ribs from cracking as he’s flung several meters forward, dropping both jars in his fall.

The wind in knocked out of him and his landing is dismal, smacking his head and hurting his wrist. He tries to get to his feet but his head’s spinning too much and there’s no power in his limbs. His blurry vision is shrinking rapidly, overtaken by darkness. The last thing he sees is the legs of the ghost woman a few meters away, and the open glass jar he dropped, rolling in a half circle, leaving a trail of salt in its wake…

.

.

.

.

_Blue eyes. Golden locks framing the face. Cotton candy and a tiara. A watch as complex as the young man it’s given to. The eyes just keeps watching him silently. A kiss, tinted with the taste of blood, shifts the entire Earth on its axis. Blue eyes, another hue now, hair shorter and dark. “...I’m not always in control...” Two matching rings. Another kiss tinted with blood and the Earth spins another direction. Images flashing, not making any sense. SASHA! **SAAASH!** ― _

Sasha blinks. His head is full of confusing images. His head hurts. He’s got no idea where he is, why the light is flickering or what he’s doing on the floor.

“SASHA, COME OOOON!” Mitchell’s call from downstairs is desperate. He recognises the voice as what woke him up. He pushes himself up to a sitting position, trying to regain comprehension, and finds himself staring at a young woman. She looks alive and solid. For some reason that surprises him, but the gears in his head aren’t quite spinning yet, so he’s unsure why. She’s wearing flared jeans with a high waist, a white top, a necklace with a medallion of a saint, and has a 70’s haircut. She can’t be much older than twenty. Her neck has bruises from being strangled and her temple has an indentation that should make it her impossible for her to be standing there looking at him with sad, hopeless eyes. 

_Impossible. With that head trauma she should be― Oh._

It all comes flooding back. He’s looking at a ghost. Only the ghost is fully formed, not transparent. She’s standing within a half ring of spilled bath salt. The jar had rolled from one side of the wall to the other, trapping her. The salt in the bathroom had not only hurt her, but spread all over the floor, limiting her access.

_She can’t cross salt._

While that is fantastic news, there’s nothing to say that it will hold her forever. Maybe if she dissipates she can re-form somewhere else. He struggles to a standing position and is hit by a dizzy spell that almost makes him fall over again. He catches himself with a hand against the wall and sucks in breath at the pain lancing through his wrist. He has to stand still for a moment to recuperate. The sounds coming from below tells him he's wasting valuable time. Not that he has much choice in the matter. His body informs him that waiting in pertinent. Passing out in the staircase wouldn’t exactly help him save Mitchell. As the wave of dizziness recedes he staggers towards the woman, eyeing her warily, having spotted the second jar of salt and his bogroll shooter on the floor in front of her. She just looks at him as he carefully picks the items up. Most of the salt he’d loaded into his shooter is still there. He turns towards the staircase― 

**NO**

His head snaps around to look at her. Now she’s standing by the edge of the salt, having moved from the middle of the half circle. His heart jumps in fright, thinking he was wrong about the salt and she’ll come after him. She doesn’t. He backs away from her, slowly, edging towards the staircase.

**STAY HERE**

The voice echoes in his head. It’s eerie. “No can do, lady,” he answers, mouth dry, and takes another step backwards. Her face twists into mournful desperation. 

**HE CAN’T COME UP HERE**

Why he answers eludes him, but he does. “That’s the point, miss. Gotta go down and save him,” he says, head clearing more by the second. He turns around and grips the bannister, then trots down the stairs, almost tripping, but keeping himself upright with his grip on the bannister. On the ground floor he can hear Mitch clearly from the living room. The whole floor plan seems trashed, with broken furniture and ornaments. There are still crashes, and Mitch is laughing. It’s not a mad cackle. It’s the strained low but high pitched laughter that can turn into sobs at any moment. Seems Mitchell’s easy laughter _is_ part of his personality, if it’s ingrained into his high-stress reaction too. Sasha takes his bag of salt up from his pocket and edges to the living room doorway. He opens the packet and tries to sneakily pour a line of salt across the whole opening (pointless if ghosts can walk through walls, but why not take a chance?), then he pulls back the condom on his shooter and steps into view.

Mitch has his back to the fireplace, holding an iron poker in each hand. He’s bleeding from several places on his head, arms, and legs. A man appears in front of him, dressed in 70s clothing too, and lunges. Mitch swings one of the pokers and the man dissolves with angry grimace when he’s hit, but appears again by his side. Mitch swings again just in time to fend off a new attack. He’s exhausted, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead.

Sasha opens the lid of the bath salt jar and squeezes it between elbow and torso. “Mitch! Run this way! I’ve got you covered!”

Mitch sees him and throws himself towards the door. The male ghost appears behind him and Sasha fires, shooting a spray of salt towards Mitch and the ghost. It hits both Mitch and ghost, only difference is that the ghost (wearing the same medallion as the woman upstairs, Sasha notes) dissolves when he’s hit. Sasha reloads with a handful from the jar as soon as he’s fired. But when the ghost appears by the doorway, Mitch is already throwing himself through it, and Sasha gets in another barrage on the ghost. Sasha uses the jar to throw the remaining salt in the direction of the door and drops the jar. “Walk on it,” he commands Mitch.

Mitch is panting hard, eyes glossy from desperation and exhaustion, once again reminding Sasha that full on combat isn’t Mitchell’s speciality. He almost collapses and Sasha manages to catch him. Ignoring his own pain in the wrist he grabs Mitch’s arm and hauls him over his shoulder, supporting him with his other arm around the waist. Mitch is clutching the pokers as if their lives depended on it (which might be true) as Sasha drags him towards the door, casting glances behind them. The ghost appears again, just inside the saltline by the doorway, glaring hatefully at them. Sasha smirks and throws it a teasing wink. 

The responding outraged scream right in their heads is so loud Mitchell’s legs buckle and Sasha staggers. But then they’re by the door, then, freedom.

Sasha and Mitch hurries as fast as they can towards the car. Sasha’s half carrying, half dragging Mitchell all the way, not letting go until they reach the car. He finds the key fob, unlocks, and helps Mitch get in, then goes around and gets into the driver’s seat. He starts the car and floors it.

* * *

They’re about five blocks away when Sasha turns to the road side and stops the car. He turns to Mitchell who’s been staring wide eyed and numbly into nothing. “Oy! You okay, little brother?” he asks and slaps Mitch on the shoulder, gripping it. He’s got a killer headache, is sore, and still slightly dizzy, but Mitch is bleeding from several places, exhausted, and unused to prolonged fighting for his life. Sasha worries Mitch’s going into shock. He’ll take them to a hospital, since they both need medical attention, but a pause to check up on Mitch is more pressing.

Mitch jerks when Sasha touches him and blinking turns his head towards Sasha. “Um… I…” a giggle escapes him. “Holy crap!” Another giggle, like a hiccup. His eyes comes back to focus. “Wow. No. Not even close to okay. That was...” Mitch chortles and shakes his head, but humour sparks in his eyes. “...that was fun. Let’s do that again sometime, shall we?”

Sasha’s own lips twitch in amusement of their own accord. “I’m planning to.”

Mitch grins in disbelief and looks down on his hands, still clutching the iron pokers. “Oh, wow. Yeah. Sure. Of course.” He lets go of the pokers and drags his hand over his face. “What took you so long?”

“Two ghosts, little brother. Two ghosts.”

Mitch chuckles, shakes his head again and looks back at Sasha. “We need to kill them. I don’t care _how_. But that fucker needs to die!”

“You still in?”

“What? Yeah. Hell yeah! Fuck. I’ve never been so scared in my whole life! He wouldn’t let me get away. He kept blocking my escapes. The doors out, the windows, the staircase―“

“The staircase too?” Sasha interrupts. He’d thought the female ghost had meant Mitch when she’d said ‘He can’t come up here’, but maybe that wasn’t the case. Either way, Mitch is back to better focus.

“Yeah. Fuck, bro. He banged me into furniture, threw me from the kitchen, straight through the entrance hall to the living room. He kept coming, and I could do nothing to defend myself. I started throwing anything nearby at him once the guns and knives failed. It wasn’t until I grabbed a poker from the stand that I found something that worked. Iron. I thought I was saved. But then he started to reappearing behind and beside me. I thought I was going to die. I was sure of it! What was the pink stuff you shot at us?”

“Bath salt.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. And I accidentally, but conveniently trapped my lady ghost in a ring of bath salt while I was passed out. They can’t cross it while manifested. I don’t know if they’re able to move past it when ‘gone’, but I’m willing to bet that as long as they’re active and the temperature is down, they can’t pass it.”

“Good to know. She knocked you out? You’re bleeding from your temple.”

“Yeah. That’s what took me so long. First she locked me into the bathroom, then she knocked me out. I think… looking back at it now, I think she was trying to save me from Mr. Ghost. Almost killing me in the process, but still. It’s the thought that counts, right?” he winks at Mitch who promptly breaks out laughing. This time Sasha laughs along with him, as the sheer relief of both of them getting out safely catches up to him.

“I still can’t get over that we fell for the oldest horror movie trick in the book, by splitting up,” Mitch laughs.

“Eyy. How else were we supposed to draw them out?”

“Good point, but next time I’m coming with you no matter if you’re taking a dump or not. Holy crap.” Mitch shakes his head. “I’m glad I wore body armour. Some of the attacks would have fucked me up without it.”

And Sasha had been saved from breaking his ribs by the armoured vest he’s wearing too. “Next time, we’ll wear full body armour. And helmets. Let’s see if there’s a way to add a salt layer to it too. It would be good if the ghosts couldn’t actually touch our vital parts,” he says and starts the car, turning back onto the road.

Mitch snorts in amusement. “Are you concussed?”

“Probably, yeah. Is it a bad idea?” Sasha asks. He can’t see any flaws in that plan, but then again, less than fifteen minutes ago he was out cold. It wouldn’t be the first time in his life he’d had ‘brilliant’ ideas after getting knocked out, that turned out only seeming brilliant due to impaired reasoning abilities.

“Well. It’s not the crappiest idea someone ever had. But think about it. We don’t know if something covering the salt removes the effect, right? So the salt would have to be the outermost layer. We gonna carve armour plates out of slabs of salt? It'd be heavy and fairly brittle. And that’s not counting how hard it would be to attach the plates.”

“You’ve got a better idea?”

“How about thin plates of iron?” Mitch suggests with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. 

Sasha squeezes his eyes shut and facepalms at his own stupidly. Mitch grabs the wheel when Sasha takes his eyes off the road. “Yes. That’d be smarter and easier to make and incorporate with kevlar armour,” he concedes, opens his eyes and puts his hands on the wheel again. His brain is clearly not fully functional yet.

* * *

Once they’re back from the hospital―Sasha with a bandaged wrist and head, Mitch with multiple stitches on several places―Sasha uses their remaining salt to draw lines in front of the doorway and the windows of their hotel room. It’s a testament of their mental state that Mitch doesn’t laugh at him, but says “Good thinking, big bro.”

Sasha’s head scan in the hospital hadn’t revealed any internal bleeding or swelling, so he feels fairly safe about going to sleep. He’s more concerned for Mitch now that adrenaline had run out and exhaustion had caught up. “We need to eat and drink,” Sasha urges when Mitch crawls into bed without even undressing.

Mitch grunts noncommittally in response. Sasha hands him a juice, a chocolate bar and a sandwich he’d bought on the hospital. Mitch looks at him with resentful, tired eyes but dutifully accepts and eats them, Sasha forcing a sandwich down too. He barely tastes it. 

After that they both crawls under their blankets. Sasha’s concerned about Mitchell’s apathy. “Do you know what the world's oldest profession is?” he asks. 

“Whore,” Mitchell answers dully as anticipated. 

“No.”

“No?”

“And God said ‘Let there be light.’ And there was light. Because the electricians had already been there to set up the wiring.”

It’s a shitty joke, but Mitch laughs. The laughter fades and is replaced by soft snoring within less than a minute. Sasha smiles contentedly to himself before sleep overtakes him too.

* * *

They’re sitting opposite each other by the rickety table in the motel room. Sasha’s got his chair turned against the wall, slouching. Mitch is leaned against the table, taking notes in his journal. Sasha hasn’t done so yet. He opts to rest his wrist. They’re discussing last night’s events and what to do next. Sasha’s content to see that, while in pain, Mitch is not discouraged. If anything, he’s more determined now than before. He wants vengeance. “She said he can't go upstairs, which ought to mean that ghosts are locked to a certain place. I wonder by what, and in what radius?” Sasha muses.

“Maybe it’s individual.”

“There ought to be natural rules that affects them. Just like gravity affects us for an instance,” Sasha says. 

“Yes I agree. But since they exist on another plane, the rules may be outside the boundaries of our comprehension. If we're going with your theory that they need to draw energy from this plane to manifest, then we can presume that the more they've manifested, the more they’re affected by the natural laws of this plane, and that's why my ghost couldn't simply walk through the wall when you blocked the living room doorway with salt. You still believe they can escape salt when they return fully to their own plane?”

“I’m going with that. It’s safer for us to think so, rather than presume that lady ghost is still stuck the next time we go there. I also think electricity or magnetism has something to do with how they manifest.”

“You don’t think that they were flickering the lights just to scare us?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Okay. Let’s theorize that ghosts are anchored to certain places. We hear about haunted houses and such, but there’s never any stories about ghosts roaming from one place to another. So they have anchors. By my guess it's either their remains or something of great emotional attachment, since we hear about ghosts staying from unfinished business.”

Because the salt thing turned out to be true they now treat any oft repeated rumours like they could be based on truth. Especially if it was mentioned in old folklore from when people still believed in these things. 

“And if the anchor has to be a physical thing linking them to this place, we might be able to banish or kill them by destroying their anchor,” Sasha suggests. 

“It’s worth a shot. But if we're going to find their anchors we need to find out who they were. They were dressed in 70s clothing, but the police records didn't show any murder of a woman in the 70s.”

“Right. Because the police always _knows_ ,” Sasha deadpans.

They look at each other seriously for a moment, then promptly burst out laughing.

“Alright. Checking old missing persons files, it is,” Mitch concedes with a grin. “We’re going to have to visit the station to see if they still have old records in storage. To my thinking, going through the case file for the first murder might be a good place to start. Maybe it was a double homicide? But the cops only found one of the dead. You said they were wearing the same medallion. Jealous ex girlfriend murdering him and all?”

Sasha lifts his pendant and drags it in the seam of his lips while he thinks. He doesn’t rub his ring as he usually do. It’s not a conscious action, but even subconsciously he’s sulking about Michael’s behaviour. “I agree. And let’s contact a blacksmith about making iron ghost armour for us. To my thinking we don’t actually need to use much force to hurt them. I think it’s more about disrupting their energy, which salt and iron seems to do.”

“And maybe we should get iron bullets for our guns,” Mitch suggests. He’s taking notes of their discussion in his journal.

Sasha chuckles.

Mitch looks up from his writing and raises his eyebrows in question.

The grin falls from Sasha’s face. “Oh. You weren’t joking. You’re not a weapons guy, are you, huh?”

Mitch frowns. “I know how to handle a gun just fine.”

Sasha drops his pendant and turns to face Mitch full on, snapping into instructor mode. “I’m sure. But this is about metal density. The barrel of a gun is rifled on the inside. It means it has spiralling grooves cut into it to make the bullet spin in flight and make aim more accurate.” He gestures demonstratively with his hands while he talks. “So the bullet catches these grooves and starts to rotate, right? Lead is pretty soft, but iron is much harder and would damage these grooves. At most you’d get a few rounds out before you’ve fucked the barrel up completely. It would kill accuracy and the bullets could get stuck. There are other reasons too, as to why iron would be a bust to use for bullets, but if you’re not really interested I’m not going into it.” Sasha leans back in his chair again and twists to lean against the wall. He picks up his pendant and rubs it along his lower lip. “Possibly you could use old muzzle-loaders, like an arquebus,” he muses. “It would be inconvenient as fuck. But instead we could fill shotgun shells with small iron pellets, or better yet, rock salt. If both salt and iron has the same effects on ghosts, salt is easier to obtain. So I’m thinking, salt for long ranged weapons and iron for handheld ones?” He looks at Mitch for confirmation.

Mitch had lost his defensiveness when Sasha didn’t mock him for his lack of knowledge. “Yeah. That sounds like good thinking.”

Sasha gets lost in musings for a while, tapping the side of his pendant on his lip with a troubled frown. Mitch turns his attention to his journal, writing. “Say… did Mr. Ghost ever come after you from above or below?” Sasha asks at last.

Mitch looks up with a puzzled frown. “No. Just from the sides.”

“I wonder if that’s because he couldn’t, or if it’s because he was so used to adhere to gravity when he was alive, that it never occurred to him that he doesn’t need to anymore?”

Mitchell gives Sasha a suffering grin. “Please don’t encourage the ghosts to think outside the box.”

Sasha sniggers.

Silence descends again as Mitch resumes writing and Sasha continues musing.

Suddenly Mitch looks up. “What if it can be measured?”

“What?”

“You mentioned electricity and magnetism. There are such things as electromagnetic field meters. Maybe the ghosts leave traces of their activity. It ought to be the strongest by their anchors, right? So using an EMF meter might help us find them, like using metal detectors on a beach.”

Sasha shrugs a shoulder and makes a sturgeon face. “ _If_ they have an anchor, and _if_ they leave residue… it’s worth a try.”

“Great. Then we’ll get some of those,” Mitch says with an excited grin.

Sasha realises they’re both having fun, as absurd as it may seem. Bodily tired and dinged up, going for lethal trial and error, it’s still _fun_. 

_My new hobby. Jackass on steroids. ...fair enough. I guess that’s what makes me a Croatoan. Normal living just doesn’t do it for me._

* * *

They find a blacksmith that agrees to help them construct their armour additions with a very limited timeframe. It takes a plane ride to Delaware to meet up with him to go over what they want and to be measured. Sasha says they’re participating in a post apocalyptical-slash-medieval LARP. This makes sense to their armourer who is fired up in excitement, albeit not to Mitch. He goes along with Sasha’s story, but displays utter confusion as soon as they leave. It’s the first time Sasha truly makes use of the knowledge imparted on him by the passionate redhead on the plane to South America years ago. He explains the concept and tells the story of how he came to know it. He wonders what happened to the girl.

On the three hour plane ride home there’s wifi, and Mitch spends the time looking at youtube videos of parrots and other smart birds. Sasha feels a bit smug about that. He himself spends the time on his laptop too, but doing actual work instead. No rest for the wicked.

There’s not much daylight left when they get back to New Mexico, so there’s dinner and sleep on the schedule. Day two they use their FBI badges to gain entrance to the local police archives. They hit jackpot on the male ghost right away. He is indeed the first murdered man in the house. Joe Maxwell, 27 years old. His ex girlfriend and murderer had managed to remain silent about the hows and whys, but they still find some interesting details. There are some personal photos of Joe alive, where he’s wearing the medallion, but in the crime scene photos, he’s not. There’s no mentions of the medallion anywhere.

“Maybe the ghosts weren’t wearing different medallions, but the same one?” Mitch muses. “Maybe she’s wearing his medallion? Maybe she’s wearing it because he gave it to her, and he’s wearing it because he was so attached to it. Like you, with your pendant.”

It makes Sasha uncomfortable that his attachment to Castiel’s pendant is so blatant. He hardly ever thinks of it anymore. But getting it pointed out for him makes him think about his ring. But then again, him getting a ring from a бог брат warrants emotional attachment due to the honour alone. 

Going through the missing persons reports from that year is a bust. There’s no woman matching the description. Their last stop is with the artist working for the police to get a portrait of their Jane Doe ghost made. Sasha gets complimented by the artist for his vivid description that results in a very accurate picture. He feels smug about it. He wonders if Mikey can draw based on a description and is instantly ticked off again by Michael’s behaviour last time they spoke. 

The next day takes them back to the police station trying to find out if there's anyone still working there who was active 40 years ago. It’s a vain hope. However, they do get the name of a retired cop that used to work missing person cases, who luckily is still alive. He’s moved from the city, so they take a two hour drive to visit the old man. This time, they’re in luck. The old, wrinkly ex-cop is one of the types who carry the burden of every unsolved case forever on his shoulders. He recognises the picture of the woman instantly. He doesn’t remember her name, but he does remember her going missing along with her boyfriend. It was thought that the two had run off together until her boyfriend had been found murdered. She was never found. Her disappearance had happened three years prior to the Maxwell homicide, that’s why Sasha and Mitch hadn’t found her in the archives. They’d been looking at the wrong year. So they drive back to the city and go through the right year’s files. There they find her. Janie Munroe. Went missing unexpectedly at the age of 17. 

They’ve identified both their ghosts. 

After a brief discussion they head to the cemetery where Joe Maxwell is supposedly buried. Mitch thinks destroying his remains might make him disappear. It wouldn’t explain how he’s haunting the house, not the cemetery, but Sasha’s open to try every theory. It’s a bust, since it turns out Joe was cremated and his ashes scattered in the memorial grove. Still, they laugh like fucking morons on their way home, about seriously considering digging up graves to kill corpses. Albeit, it does raise a question about how one would go about destroying a corpse. They agree that it had already been done by cremation, thus fire seems like the most viable option. “Maybe salt the fucker first, just to be on the safe side,” Mitch suggests. Sasha strongly agrees.

The day after that they finish collecting all their gear, and the next day they revisit their armourer for a fitting. Mitch complains about the armour being heavy, so Sasha teases him, calling him a noodle. He isn’t really. They’re both tall and muscular. It’s just that Mitch has a long, gangly body type while Sasha’s got that compact, stocky thing going for him. Also, Sasha’s used to working geared up like a fucking pack mule, Mitch isn’t. 

The iron plates only cover the most vital parts. Chest and back, shoulders and helmet. It’s beautifully integrated in the black swat type of body armour they’d brought for the guy to work with. He laments not having enough time to decorate it more. But when they’re all geared up, looking at themselves in the mirror, Sasha and Mitch both have a moment of silence. “Fuck,” Mitch says. “We look like post-apocalyptic knights of Hell.”

“Or its forerunners,” Sasha says and winks at him, thinking of the Croatoan virus they’re spreading. He agrees though. They look like something out of a video game or a war survivor’s nightmare. They look fucking badass and Sasha loves it. He’ll keep in touch with the blacksmith for future needs.

The armour is heavy though.

* * *

What motivates a person is individual. Sasha can see that this whole thing has triggered something in Mitchell. There’s a new fire in his partner now. The topic comes up when they lie in bed about to go to sleep, smoking a cigarette.

“I almost wish we didn’t have to make the next drop,” Mitch says. “I’d rather be doing this.”

Sasha chuckles, blowing out smoke upward. “Mhm. I feel you, little brother. I’m almost tempted to delegate the drop.”

“So why don’t you? You’ve got the authority to do so,” Mitch says hopefully.

This time Sasha laughs. “That’s not who I am. I take great pride in my work. Ain’t gonna shirk it because I found a new hobby.” He smiles and shakes his head, takes another drag on his cigarette and looks up at the ceiling. “If tomorrow doesn’t pan out and it’s back to the research stage, then we’ll go make the drop and return here. I ain’t letting this go. Don’t worry, you’ll get your revenge.”

Mitch chuckles. “It’s not only about that. I feel like a fucking action hero. That was never on my table before. Anytime brawns been needed in my missions, I’ve gotten to work with a hammer to protect me―the brain―so to speak. But this… I get to be both brains and brawn. And you’re both too, so I don’t have to rely on my brains to keep you alive. My job, as satisfying as it is, has started feeling stale. Every mission is another day at the office, you know?”

Sasha turns his head and scrutinises Mitch in the semi darkness. Mitch is staring at the ceiling with a thoughtful look on his face. And Sasha can relate. You get older, you change. You need new kicks to keep you high. In many cases, if Mitchell had to resort to fighting, he’d failed at his job. Whereas Sasha has had very varied functions. And really, what little boy didn’t want to be an action hero? “We’ll have to start training your fighting skills then. And we’ll find you a hammer to train you while we’re apart. If you’re up for it.”

“Yeah, yeah. That’d be awesome.”

“In the meantime, you can teach me the wonderful art of makeup.”

Mitch sniggers. “That’s a deal, big brother.”

Sasha drops his cigarette in the waterglass on his nightstand. “Good. Tomorrow is a big day. Sleep well.”

“Goodnight.”

It doesn’t take Sasha long to fall asleep, and when he does, he dreams of Michael.

* * *

Nobody’s been in the house since they last entered it. It surprises Sasha, since their encounter had been rather loud, considering all the crashes and shouts. The place is a mess. Doing a round on the ground floor really makes it hit home how trashed Mitch had been by the ghost of Joe Maxwell. Their equipment is heavy. “When we’ve started figure out a method we won’t need to carry this much crap,” Sasha remarks. The protective goggles restricts his vision a bit. He thinks that once they’ve done this a couple of times they'll be able to strip down their equipment to a bare minimum.

“Yeah well. I feel safer with it,” Mitch replies.

Sasha grunts in response. The EMF meters turned out to be working. Anything the ghost had touched makes the meter respond.

On the second floor Sasha starts talking. “Janie? Janie, I know you’re here. I need to talk to you.”

“Crap! What are you doing?” Mitch says and exchanges his EMF meter for the salt-shooting shotgun. He leaves the meter switched on, clipped to the toolbelt. It keeps beeping, showing the fluctuations in its vicinity.

“I told you, I think Janie tried to save me, as fucked up as it seems. I think there’s a reason there has been both suicides and murders here. I think Janie unwittingly have caused the suicides while Joe is the murderer.”

“We should have discussed this beforehand.”

“Just roll with it.”

They search each room slowly with the EMF meter. Sasha keeps talking to Janie, trying to lure her out. It’s not passed midnight yet and nobody had reported any hauntings at 11 PM. Just because nobody’s reported it doesn’t mean they can’t occur. Sasha’s pulse is elevated. He’s sure Mitch is scared by the look of him. There’s no shame in that as long as he can keep control of himself. 

In the smallest room the EMF meters both start going nuts. They’ve got different models in case one should prove better than the other. “Janie, come on. I need to talk to you. I’m sorry I threw salt at you when I was here. You were hurting me. I realise that you were trying to help me, but at the time I thought you were trying to kill me.” He sweeps the meter slowly up and down the sides of the walls and furniture. By the wall bordering the bathroom his meter suddenly peaks. “Mitch,” he says. 

“Yeah, I see it. Which brings the question as to why this room is smaller than the others. I took it was because of the plumbing and pipes to the bathroom, but maybe it’s not.”

Mitch is a smart son of a bitch. “You might be right about that. Maybe her anchor’s in here.” He knocks on the wall. It sounds the same all over. “Is it ringing hollow to you?”

“I don’t know. Let’s break the wall where the EMF is the strongest and see.”

“Alright. I’ll go to the car to fetch some equipment. You wait here.”

“Are you serious?”

Sasha chuckles at Mitchell’s disbelieving face. “Don’t worry. Just pour a ring of salt around you and stand within. It ought to work. I want you to report if anything happens while I’m gone.” He taps his earbud. “I still got you here, remember? And you’re armed to the teeth. You’ll be fine.”

“Alright. But I don’t like it,” Mitch says. 

Sasha stays while Mitch draws a large circle out of salt in the middle of the room, then heads for the car. In the trunk they’ve got ordinary gear for assassin and clean up gigs. It’s stuff he wouldn’t keep in the car for sensitive gigs like dropping the virus, but feel so much better about having any other time. Like the shovel for an instance, and the crowbar. He gets them both now. This time they’ve been much less discreet, parking right on the driveway. It’s late enough that most neighbours ought to be asleep, and if anyone calls the cops they’ll deal with it, preferring a swift getaway should things go to shit in the house. “Everything okay in there?” he asks.

“Yeah. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just hurry,” Mitch voice in his earbud says.

Sasha does as he’s told, and comes back upstairs without encountering any interference. He puts the shovel within the ring Mitch is standing in. “Okay, Janie. We’ll be making a mess out of your bedroom. You got anything against that, we’re open for a discussion,” he tells the possible presence of a ghost nearby. Mitch sniggers but keeps quiet. Sasha uses the EMF meter to find the spot on the wall where it’s reacting the most, clips the meter to his belt and grips the crowbar firmly with both hands. “Watch out for debris,” he tells Mitch, then swings the crowbar as hard as he can at the wall. Chunks of mortar flies everywhere and he’s glad they’re wearing goggles. A few more hits and he’s made a melon sized hole through the wall. He takes his flashlight and shines into the darkness, peeking his head inside.

“Find anything?” Mitch asks behind him.

They’d been right about the pipes and plumbing. But also… “Yep. We’ve hit jackpot. We’ve got a mummified corpse in here.”

“Can I see?” 

Sasha smirks at Mitchell’s curiosity before he straightens up and turns to face him. While Mitch probably has seen his share of dead people, he may not have encountered something like this. “Sure. Go ahead.”

Mitch sticks his head in the hole and shines his flashlight downward on the mummy, still in her clothes. Her blackened dried out skin has stretched tightly over her skeleton and drawn her lips back to show teeth. “Woah, that’s creepy, bro. She still has hair. Is that common? Are they supposed to have hair?”

Despite himself, Sasha bursts out laughing. “Yeah. Yes. That is required by law,” he answers gibingly. 

Mitch pulls his head out of the hole and gives him a look full or reproach. He stands up.

Sasha holds up his hands in surrender with a shiteating grin. “Oy. If you’re asking stupid questions, you’re asking to be made fun of.”

“Alright, alright. What now. Salt and burn her?” Mitch grumps.

The words are barely out of his mouth before the temperature suddenly drops from one second to another.

**NO!**

Janie appears right in front of Mitch, startling them both, and shoves at Mitch chest.

Wrong.

Tries to shove. The moment her hands come into contact with his iron breastplate she shrieks in pain and dissolves. 

Sasha grabs Mitchell’s arm and tugs him into the protective circle of the salt. Mitch looks a bit bewildered but raises his shotgun. The temperature is still down, misting their breaths. Sasha lays his hand on top of the barrel briefly, signalling to Mitch not to shoot. “Janie? Janie, we don’t want to hurt you. But we need to speak with you. Could you show yourself?”

Janie solidifies outside the ring of salt, straight in front of Sasha. She goes from vaguely visible, to see through, to solid and lifelike in the span of thirty seconds. Sasha smiles disarmingly at her. “You were trying to help me last time I was here, yeah?” he asks.

There’s static in his earbud but the light is only flickering a little bit. He’d have thought it would flicker more so close to her supposed anchor, but maybe this is more logical. If her anchor is here, maybe she doesn’t have to draw quite as much energy from the environment. She’s quiet, watching them with big scared eyes. Her apparition flickers back and forth between looking healthy and having the bruises and caved in skull he’d seen the last time. It’s making him uncomfortable to see, but he’s not scared this time. His pulse is barely elevated. This is still within the range of things he’d foreseen based on their last encounter. Behind him Mitch mutters something under his breath. 

When the ghost doesn’t answer, Sasha goes on talking. “My name is James Porter. This is my brother Jack. We’re FBI officers, working on the supernatural department,” he lies and takes up his fake FBI badge, briefly flashing it to her. “Are you aware that you are dead, Miss?”

**YES**

“Good. Our job is to make sure spirits move along to their designated places. We’re here to help you. First I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, to make sure we’ve got the right information.”

**I’VE DONE NOTHING WRONG**

Sasha feels like bending over cackling. This is the ultimate proof that ghosts are just lingering souls of humans, and don’t turn into all-knowing spirits just because they die. They’re still hampered by the thoughts and ideations they had while alive. Janie, a benevolent (if a tad bit violent) ghost, still reacted to a badge with the same respect as she would while alive. Sasha doubts the same would go for Joe, since he likely didn’t have any to begin with. He keeps the mirth from his face and keeps his expression sympathetic and concerned. “I’m not saying you have. Like I said, we’re here to help you. You’ve been identified as Janie Munroe. You went missing along with your boyfriend at the age of 17. Is this correct?”

Janie looks troubled and crosses her arms in front of her in discomfort. It’s not a gesture of defiance, but rather protective, like she’s comforting herself.

**I… I THINK SO?**

“If your memory is fuzzy, it’s understandable, Janie. You’ve been dead for more than forty years. It’s okay. Just answer the questions you _do_ remember,” Sasha soothes.

**OKAY**

“You were thought to have run away from home by your own volition, until your boyfriend was found murdered.”

**NO. HE KILLED MARK AND TOOK ME. HE ABDUCTED ME.**

Mark was the boyfriend. Her shifty memory plays into Mitchell’s theory about unfinished business. Sasha guesses that if you stay around long enough, more and more memories will fade, until all you can remember is the thing that kept you here. It may not be true, but if she had trouble remembering her own name, but remembered her boyfriend’s name and being abducted, it was a theory as good as any.

“Joe Maxwell abducted you?”

**YES**

It’s a bit surreal to speak with a ghost like this. Her voice seems to come both in his head and from her mouth. Not only that. Janie is getting more relaxed, looking more eager to talk. Apart from being a ghost, she’s also a girl who’s been through a horrible trauma and finally have someone who listens and wants to help. There’s a kind of sad hope in her eyes now, that wasn’t there before. “He kept you locked up in this house?”

**YES**

“For how long?” These questions aren’t important to their quest as such, it’s more to gain Janie’s trust and to form an understanding of what may cause a ghost to linger.

**THREE YEARS**

Mitch whistles lowly behind him. He’s lowered the shotgun, no longer believing Janie to be a direct threat. Three years is a long time to be someone’s prisoner. Sasha has a vivid enough imagination to guess what 24 year old Joe did, and continued doing, to the then 17 year old girl. “He kept you in this room?”

**NO. THE BASEMENT.**

Sasha twists his head and exchanges a look with Mitch. According to the realtor and their investigation, there is no basement. So most likely, there was one that’s been sealed off somehow, and Joe’s anchor is in there. It’s hard to tell, but he thinks Mitch has the same thought. He turns back to Janie. “You said last time Joe can’t come up here. Can you go down there? Is it possible for you to do so?”

Janie’s image flickers in distress.

**YES**

“We need to find the thing that’s anchoring him here. Could you show us where it is?”

**NO**

“Could you show us the basement?”

Janie fades, becoming transparent. Her wounds and bruises take over the healthy look. She looks afraid. It’s somehow absurd to see her shift on her feet like a living human. She doesn’t answer.

“Janie, why are you still here?” Mitch asks suddenly.

**HE WON’T LET PEOPLE GO. I NEED TO SAVE THEM.**

Which is perfect. 

Sasha steps out of the protective circle of salt. He schools his features into his most compassionate look. “Janie. That’s why we’re here.” He smiles sadly at her and takes a step closer. “We’re here to send him to hell so he never can hurt anyone again. You’ve been through more than any girl should ever have to. I can’t even begin to imagine the suffering you’ve endured.” He can. Easily. 

She looks up at him with big worried eyes, really showing how young she is. He reaches out carefully, allowing her a chance to withdraw if she’s uncomfortable, and puts a hand on her shoulder. She becomes solid once more, as if she’s accommodating his reassuring touch. It was a chance taken. Maybe she’d freak out, or maybe she wouldn’t be possible to touch at all. “We need you, Janie. This is your chance to save everybody. Nobody will ever be harmed by him again. All you need to do is show us where the basement is, and we’ll figure out the rest, okay? After he’s gone, we’ll help you get to heaven. Your vigil will finally be over.”

“Please, Janie,” Mitch pleads. She looks away from Sasha at him and suddenly Sasha’s hand is no longer rested on something solid, but falls right through her. It makes him slightly nauseous, and he withdraws his hand to hide it. Maybe it takes conscious thought for her to be solid. Maybe the water he’d dosed her with last time could have just as easily gone straight through her.

**O-OKAY...**

She looks so frightened when she looks back up at Sasha. He smiles encouragingly at her. “It’s going to be alright, little one. I promise.”

She nods bravely, as if she believes him. If she only know the sheer amounts of bullshit he’s comprised of. Especially when it came to getting what he wants. He could just as easily have been Joe Maxwell. If he’d been into that kind of stuff.

Mitchell is still slightly tense about leaving the confinements of the ring. He tries not to show it. Sasha picks up the crowbar and the shovel. “Lead the way,” he encourages Janie. She nods again and fades out of sight. Outside in the hallway the lights begin to flicker. When they get out there she’s standing by the staircase. When she sees them, she fades out of sight again and appears at the bottom of the stairs. They follow her down and she moves into the living room. Mitch leans close to him as they descends and whispers “That’s some serious daddy vibes you’ve got going on there.”

Sasha scoffs. “I hope you ain’t trying to make this dirty.”

Mitch sniggers. “I wasn’t. Until you suggested it,” he says and dances out of range. Sasha glares at him. The teasing is a positive thing though, as it helps keeping their nerves at bay.

In the living room Janie flings the carpet aside and indicates a point in the hardwood floor. “This is going to take some time,” Sasha laments and hands the shovel to Mitch. He uses the crowbar as a picket to destroy one of the planks. Janie is visibly nervous and stressed.

**OUT OF THE WAY**

Sasha looks up, ready for an attack from Joe. But he’s not there. Instead Janie fades out of view and suddenly broken floorboards come flying off the ground. Both Mitchell and Sasha staggers backwards, watching a hatchet come into view and the trapdoor subsequently explode off its hinges.

“Holy crap!” Mitch breathes.

Sasha’s pulse is elevating. He remembers thinking that befriending supernatural creatures could be a good thing. It’s frightening to see it demonstrated so clearly. A 20 year old girl in life could never have done that, but dead? They’d been very lucky the last time. Once again he sends a thankful thought about wearing their vests on that first encounter.

Janie becomes visible again. 

**DO I HAVE TO GO DOWN THERE?**

“I don’t think so, Janie. You go wait upstairs and we’ll take it from here. Just talk to us if you come back, so we don’t mistake you for him,” Sasha tells her and shines with his flashlight down the stairs.

She looks relieved and vanishes. The lights go back to normal, the static in the earbud disappears, and the temperature goes back up.

“You’re too much of a gentleman. We could have used her help,” Mitch says.

“Mhm. But I’m more worried she’d be freaked out and get into her skull that we were tricking her. Come on. Let’s go.”

They climb down the stairs, expecting the temperature to drop as soon as they put their feet on the stairs, but nothing happens. At the base there’s a light switch on the wall. Sasha tries it experimentally. It works. “Fuck sake,” he says when he sees the room.

“Yeah, no shit,” Mitch agrees and pushes pash Sasha. He goes to the middle of the room and draws a big circle of salt before he does anything else. Sasha appreciates the safety thinking. “I’m out of salt now save for the shotgun shells.”

“Fair enough. I’ve got us covered,” Sasha assures him and stares at the room in front of him. 

Mitch looks around too. “She lived like this for three years…” he says and shakes his head.

The room is rectangular and divided in the middle by fucking iron bars with an iron bar-door in it. On the other side of the bars there’s a large mattress. Nothing else. It’s like an old fashioned lion cage. Except a 17 year old girl had been kept there with nothing to occupy herself with, whilst not being used. And on this side of the bars there’s a desk and a chair by the wall. The walls are covered with polaroids, thousands of them. Mitch places himself in the safety of the circle with his shotgun ready, covering Sasha as Sasha wanders around the room, looking at the polaroids. Most of them are of Janie. Proof of her abuse, rendering imagination superfluous. One picture in particular disturbs Sasha. It’s a selfie of Joe and Janie. Joe’s got his arm around Janie’s shoulder and is smiling broadly at the camera. Janie is looking down with that dead look you get when you’ve cried so much that you’ve come out on the other side and lost all hope. She’s wearing his necklace and a bride’s veil, and he’s wearing a black bowtie. Out of all the pictures where Janie’s getting raped and abused, this is the one that affects him the most. He’s getting slightly nauseous by looking at it. He can’t tell why this one upsets him more than any of the rape pictures. 

He moves along, scanning the pictures and working his way over to the desk to examine the things on top of it. The closer he gets, the younger Janie is in the pictures. “He’d been stalking her for at least one year before he made his move,” he tells Mitch. “She wasn’t his first. His first captive, perhaps, but not his first victim. There are pictures here… other girls. He’s photographed himself raping them. Some of these photos… I’d say they were dying while he was at it. Let’s do the old missing persons copper a favour when we’re done, and call the cops so they can find this. This may lead to a whole bunch of families getting closure.”

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t. But others do.”

He keeps expecting Joe to show up, but he doesn’t. He trusts his armour and Mitch to keep him protected as he moves around the room though.

Finally he reaches the desk. It holds a locked wooden box and nothing else. He takes the box and the chair and carries them inside the protective salt line. Then he goes back out and grabs the desk by its side, dragging it towards the ring of salt. Carefully, as not to disturb the salt, he lifts the legs on one side over the line, then goes around to push the rest of the desk over, lifting the other set of legs too. He changes his mind about the box, takes it and steps out of the ring. Mitch is watching him with puzzlement. “What _are_ you doing?” he asks.

Sasha smirks at him. “Removing things he could throw at us. My guess is that his anchor’s in the box. Keep your focus now.”

At first Sasha was thinking he could open it within the protective ring, to be safe while they destroyed it. But perhaps that would just serve to trap Joe in with them. Sasha crouches down on the floor and breaks the lock with a pocket knife. (He couldn’t break the actual lock open, but he could break the metal rings it’s attached to, by prying them off the wood.) Inside there’s an assortment of trophies. Countless of locks of hair, some small plushies, keychains, jewelry, and the medallion. 

_Here we go._

Sasha takes a bottle of lighter fluid from his tool belt and a container of salt from his pocket. He pours salt into the box, doses it with lighter fluid and―

The temperature drops rapidly along with the light starting to flicker. Joe appears, enraged and screaming in anger.

“Stay down, Sash! I’ve got you covered!” Mitch shouts and fires his shotgun. The blast hits Joe and makes him dissolve.

This is one of the most nerve wracking things Sasha knows. Being in mortal danger and having to trust someone else while you devote yourself to a completely other task. Sasha takes up a box of matches from a pocket, flinching when Joe appears behind him and lunges for his back―

―only to dissolve with a screech of pain when he touches Sasha’s backplate.

Adrenaline is pumping through Sasha’s body, and his heart is hammering. He strikes a match. It refuses to light. Trice he fails, while Mitch fires off another round above Sasha’s head. He throws the match in the box and takes another one. This one catches fire straight away. He drops it into the box, leaning back to avoid the fire flaring up from the lighter fluid. The smell of burnt hair stings his nose.

He looks up to see Joe form, screeching inhumanely. It looks like his skin is burning like paper, eating him up. In seconds he’s engulfed by flames and disappears. The temperature goes back to normal, along with the light. For a moment they both hold their breath. The only sound is some crackling and popping from the fire in the box.

“That… that was the boss fight?” Mitch asks tentatively after a beat.

“That was the boss fight,” Sasha agrees.

“And he’s gone now?”

“I think so.”

They look at each other and from somewhere deep within, out of no volition of his own, a little relieved laughter bubbles out of Sasha. It drags Mitch along with him and soon they’re laughing hard enough for their stomachs to hurt.

That is, until the temperature suddenly drops again.

Sasha makes an undignified noise and leaps into the ring of safety and Mitch raises his shotgun again.

**HE’S GONE. I CAN’T FEEL HIM ANYMORE**

Janie’s voice have them sagging with relief. She appears in front of them smiling. “That’s right, Janie. He’s gone now. We sent him to hell where he’ll get his due punishment. You did good,” Sasha tells her.

**THANK YOU**

“No, thank you. We couldn’t have done it without you. Now we’ll go upstairs, burn your remains to set you free and send you to heaven.”

Janie smiles wider, lowers her gaze shyly, and blushes. Fucking _blushes_. Out of the things he’d never expect a ghost to do, blushing is definitely one of them.

**THERE’S NO NEED. IT’S ALWAYS TUGGING AT ME. I’VE HAD TO HOLD ON SO HARD. I’M GOING TO LET GO AND LET IT TAKE ME. I JUST WANTED TO SAY THANK YOU BEFORE I GO.**

She looks up again, gives them a joyous look and closes her eyes. Before their eyes she turns to a brilliant light, drawing inward until she’s just a fist-sized ball so bright it’s hard to look at, then slowly she rises towards the roof until it’s passed through it. 

It’s beautiful. 

Briefly, Sasha wonders if this is the light Mikey sees. If not, he wishes he could show this to Mikey somehow. One day perhaps.

Once again temperature and light goes back to normal. Sasha and Mitch look at each other. They both got the stunned, slackjawed gaping going on. They blink a couple of times, then Sasha makes a sturgeon face and shrugs a shoulder. “Fair enough,” he says.

Mitch completely loses it, laughing. Sasha follows suit. It’s been an absolutely absurd experience. A lot easier than they’d anticipated. But that’s the thing about taking on a job when you’re prepared and know what to expect. (Or at least, partly know what to expect.)

* * *

Later, back at the motel after they’ve both showered and written in their journals, Mitchell looks up from his chair and takes a pocket knife out. “Hey, Sash?”

Sash looks up in question.

Mitchell claps his upper arm where his ‘Croatoan’ is carved. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had this done, but would you do me the honour and hit me?”

Sasha smiles and nods. “Of course.” He goes to fetch the first aid kit to take care of the carving once he’s done. If he hadn’t had Mikey’s carving on his arm, he’d have asked Mitch to return the favour. Wherever he and Mitch stand in relation to each other in the _Porodica_ , and whoever Mitchell is working for, he and Mitch had gotten a lot closer doing this. Both had learned some (very) new skills and bonded. Indeed. He does feel honoured about being the one who gets to carve Mitch.

* * *


	17. Moving Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha and Mikey finally talk after Sasha's radio silence.

New state, new hotel, and soon, the next drop. Now the rush of the ghost hunt had faded and in its wake crippling longing for Mikey had taken its place. Mitch is out doing recon and Sasha goes for a walk in the summer sun, intent on one thing only―getting to hear Mikey’s voice again. He finds a park and searches for an area where he won’t be overheard. He finds what he’s looking for.

He stands by a tree in a secluded area of the park, looking out over a duck pond, and takes his phone from his pocket. He doesn’t bother to listen to his voicemail or read any of the texts from Mikey, instead he calls straight away.

“Lexi?” Mikey answers, proving he looked at the caller ID this time. 

“Mhm. Mikey, straight up. The voicemails and texts, I haven’t checked them out yet. Have you left messages you still stand for, or are those just spur of the moment rants that you regret? If it’s the first I will hang up now and listen to them, then call you back. If not, I will delete them unheard and unread. Which is it?”

“Oh, God. _Delete them_!” Mikey says urgently.

“Mh. I’ll do that. I’ve been real fucking pissed off at you, Mikey. Real fucking pissed off.”

“I picked up on that.”

“You know why?”

“You were jealous?” Mikey’s voice is serious, intent and a bit sullen.

“I am. But that’s not all. What else?”

“Why don’t you just tell me?” Mikey says impatiently.

“I’m being pedagogical. So humour me. Take a guess,” Sasha coaxes. He wants Mikey to think for himself, so he doesn’t just shut off. That way, even if he doesn’t agree, he will still grasp Sasha’s point of view.

“I called you a croat.”

“That’s a big part of it, yes. What else?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve had several days to figure it out. But fair enough. When I called I put together what you were up to within seconds, I tried to end the conversation. But you wouldn't let me.”

“I wanted to talk to you,” Mikey says sullenly.

“Mh. You say that now, but you weren't. You were talking to the trio you were fucking, and demanding that I listen in.”

“You could’ve been there with me. It was your own choice not be home,” Mikey protests. But it still sounds like he’s listening. He isn’t throwing a fit or being overly haughty.

“Now see, Mikey. Therein lies the problem. I think you knew I’d get jealous, and wouldn’t like what I heard if I remained on the phone. I think you were trying to punish me.”

“I didn’t call you. You were the one to call,” Mikey points out. Which is a fair point. Michael hadn’t called him to push it on him.

“I was. And I'm not suggesting you planned it. But when the opportunity came, you jumped on it.”

“It's not like you have a reason to be jealous…” Sasha can practically see the sullen pout on Mikey’s face as he says it.

“I don’t? When three people are pawing _my_ little boy, when I’m sat pining over you on the other side of the country?” It might be dumb to use possessive terms with Mikey, but Sasha doesn’t care. “This is a point of view thing, Mikey. You may not give a fuck who I fuck, but I do. And I don't presume you'll ever grant me enough respect to be completely faithful. Am I okay with that? No. But it is what it is. This isn't just about you fucking around. This is about you turning it into some fucked up punishment of me, for not being there. Treating me as lowly property. I've told you not to fuck with my emotions!”

“I'm not going to say I’m sorry.” And there it is. The haughtiness. The self-righteousness of a бог брат.

“Of course not. You’re a fucking бог брат! But in correlation to me you've got one of two choices. Either treat me like I’m a бог брат too, or act as if you are a mudmonkey too. As a couple, we're equals.”

“Yes, but you didn't have to go AWOL for days because of it.” The sullenness is back. Whoever he’s talking to right now is listening to what he says, not just sitting on a high horse. He isn’t talking to бог брат Michael, he’s talking to a Mikey. And just thinking in these terms is fucked up beyond belief. But that’s how he’s begun thinking of Michael lately. Filtering the modes as if they were their own persons. Fucked. Up.

“Yes I did. If I hadn't, I would have lashed out in self defense, aiming to hurt you. I don’t want to do that just because I'm angry. It would just escalate things. I was hurt, angry, and upset. It brought back the bitterness I’m still feeling about being shipped off to South America. I love you, Mikey. I spend more time than you know, thinking about how I can make things better for you, make you happy. I'm in it for the long run. I'm not gonna fall for the temptation to break you, just because I'm hurt. So for both our sakes, it's better that I keep my distance until I've calmed down when something like this happens.”

“Okay. But I don’t like it.”

“And I don’t like that you put me in a situation that makes it necessary to withdraw. How long have you been in love with me, baby boy?” Sasha asks as if it's a fact and he knows it. 

Mikey is silent. 

“Answer the question, Mikey.”

After another moment’s hesitant silence, Mikey answers. “....I don’t really know… Ten? Fifteen years? Maybe more. I'm not sure. It wasn’t straightforward. I can’t tell you when my feelings for you shifted into this. I've denied having them for a long time.”

Sasha is gobsmacked. He had through Mikey was in love with him and that he'd been for a while, but he'd never suspected it could’ve been since Mikey was in his middle teens. He hides his shock and goes on talking as if this wasn't news to him.

“That’s the point I'm trying to make. I've loved you since you were a toddler, Mikey. But the feelings I have for you now, didn't develop until you treated me as your equal. We’re a good pair, baby. I believe in you. I know you believe in me too. We’ll make it work. But only as equals. If one of us is going to surrender command like you do when you call me Vati, or I do when I flip out and you talk me down, it has to be out of our own free will, with respect. If you don’t follow that rule, this will turn real fucking destructive, and we have enough problems to deal with, to work against each other. So. That’s what I had to say. Your turn.”

“My turn to what?”

“Talk. Give your input. How did you experience the situation? How do you feel about it? What can we do for me not to flip my shit at you again?”

Michael chuckles. “You’re dealing with this like a job debriefing.”

“I want this to work, baby.”

“I want you to come home.”

“Soon. We got our next drop in two days. Then I'm checking up on Castiel and Luci in twin towns, I’ll visit Doug, and make a stop over at Pete’s for some Croatoan business.” Visiting бог брат Peter has more to do with feeling Pete’s pulse when it comes to allying with Doug, than actual Croatoan business, but Mikey doesn’t have to know that yet. “After that I'll be heading home.”

“Must have been frustrating for you… not being able to throw my lovers out the window,” Mikey remarks, voice somewhere between sullen and amused.

“I delegated.”

There’s a stunned silence for a beat. “They’re dead?”

“Yes.”

Michael breaks out in a delighted laughter, making Sasha shake his head and roll his eyes. “Oh, _fuck_. What else did you do when you went into radio silence?” Mikey’s voice is excited, full of wonder. Mood switched, but there’s not that shift in cadence that signifies a _mode_ switch. 

“I fucked myself through a pack of condoms.”

“Men? Women?”

“Yes,” Sasha admits, almost gritting his teeth. He didn’t like it one bit. Not at all. Cheating on Anna was one thing, since that relationship was fake. Mikey and he hadn’t traded promises, but his heart still told him he shouldn’t. Yet keeping himself faithful when Mikey wasn’t, felt humiliating. 

_Damned if I do, damned if I don’t._

Also, by acting out sexually, he prevented himself from committing acts of random violence that were totally pointless. As a Croatoan, that wouldn’t be a big deal. But he had an image of himself he wanted to preserve. He still more often than not, did his best to keep ordinary people’s life from mixing with the underworld. As long as they stayed away from his business that is. (Or fell for his boyfriend’s charm.)

“ _Both_? Oh, man. Do you think that makes me jealous too?” The amusement grates on Sasha. This is a cultural difference. As much as the Sin-Božji family has left their imprint on Sasha’s views, he still holds fairly old fashioned ideals about fidelity. He’s not going to give it, if it isn’t given. But romance and sex went hand in hand for him (Albeit not the other way around. He could do sex without romance, but not romance without sex). Sasha sleeping with others probably didn’t bother Mikey any more than it did, that Sasha used different chairs to sit on. For Michael and the other божја браћа, most people were nothing more than advanced toys to be used as seemed fit. If they’d oppose it, it was more a matter of ownership than jealousy. It would be about who got to say ‘mine’ about the object (person). Or so, Sasha thinks. It’s difficult to know since loving an outsider is a crime in the Sin-Božji family and his theory hasn’t been put to test. Though, he’s pretty sure that while they’re apart, if he’d tell Mikey he wants to get laid, Mikey would have a bunch of girls sent to his hotel room like normal people would send flowers. Just the fact that Mikey shows zero reaction when he mentions Castiel’s name hints that there’s absolutely no jealousy to speak of. With how their relationship has progressed these last couple of weeks, he’ll have to address the issue of Castiel with Michael. It was pertinent to make sure Castiel remained safe. But not now. In person, when he can get a full reading on Mikey.

“No. I think you couldn’t give any less fucks about who or what I do when I’m away, as long as I come back. I think you got pissed off because I hung up on you, that’s it.”

“So why’d you do it?”

“Because I was pissed off and needed to either mess something up or fuck someone. Honestly, I’ve never been so tempted to do both at the same time.”

“...Did you?” Michael’s voice is all but quavering of anticipation, as if the thought of Sasha violently raping someone is something he longs to see. Michael’s bloodthirst clashes with his empathy. Sasha wonders (not for the first time) how it’s possible to be so polar opposite at the same time.

“No.”

“Oh.” Michael sounds so disappointed it makes Sasha chuckle. “...but you’re not angry at me anymore?” Mikey asks.

Sasha smiles humorlessly and sighs. “No. But next time you’re in bed with someone, don’t answer when I call. I fucking hate the thought of you bedding others without me.”

“I’ll try to control myself. But for fuck sake, you have nothing to be jealous about. That’s just stupid, Lex.”

“Michael, I’m trying to have a healthy relationship with you. And in a healthy relationship you hear your partner out about what upset him, trying to figure out how to avoid upsetting him in the future. You don’t debate if he should have been upset in the first place. You don’t want this to work out well for the both of us? Fine. I can do destructive too. You’re fucking stuck with me now. I ain’t leaving. I want this to be a give and be given, not a break and take thing between us. You get what I’m saying?”

“You really think you could break me?”

“I know I could,” Sasha answers bluntly. “But I don’t want to.” He takes a deep breath and holds it for a beat. It’s so tempting to keep everything inside. Keep what he feels inside, to protect himself. ‘Everything you say can, and will, be used against you’. But it would not serve to help him. Just as when he exposes his throat and lets Michael put his sharp blade against it, there’s a greater payoff in being vulnerable, exposing himself emotionally. The stupidity in it is, that Mikey will know where it will hurt if he wants to be an ass. He lets out his breath in a rush. “Look, baby boy. With you I’ve found everything I thought I could never have. Home is wherever you are. You know me, and I know you. This, you, this is the greatest treasure I’ve got. The closer we get, the greater the treasure is for me. It _means_ something. And I have an idea about how one should act when you love somebody. But I’m not sure I’m willing to do what I think is right, should you fuck me over again. You get what I’m sayin?”

“Not completely, no.” Michael’s voice is keen and open, listening.

“Back in 2010 I found Castiel again and I could have shot him for betraying the _Porodica_ , or I could have roped him back in to be with me. But his safety meant more to me than my own happiness, so I did to him what you did to Lucifer. I removed myself from him to ensure his safety. _That’s_ what you do when you love someone, right? You put them first.”

“Right.”

“Well fuck that. Castiel went right back into the fray and Lucifer is no safer now than he was before, he’s just got one ally less. And what did it get us? We’ve been miserable. What I’m trying to say is, I won’t let myself be pushed away so easily this time. I will fucking _fight you_ if you try to get rid of me. We’ve got something good between us that’s making both of us happy. I want every step we take, to bring us forward. You give me something I’ve been missing in my life and in return I will do everything in my power to obliterate the darkness in yours. It’s a good trade off, Mikey. And you know it.” Not that Sasha has a clue what darkness Mikey’s been talking about. He’s just taking educated guesses about this, but he says it with conviction, like he knows what he’s talking about.

“I know, I know, sweetheart. But it’s not always that easy.” Mikey’s voice is rueful and frustrated. His agreement is a tad bit surprising. He’s swaying towards Sasha’s chosen road faster than Sasha would have thought.

“I don’t think it’s meant to be, baby.”

Michael chuckles and falls silent afterwards, possibly thinking their conversation over.

Sasha sucks in a breath as if to speak, but changes his mind and lets it out.

Mikey hears the false start. “What?”

“Is this a bad time to ask for a favour?”

“Not necessarily. What do you want?”

“I was hoping you could help looking after my cat...” Sasha squeezes his eyes shut in a _come-on-come-on_ grimace. He’s being stupid, pushing his luck.

“Your _cat_?”

Sasha looks around, searching for some inspiration of what to name the cat to lend his story more credibility. His eyes catches on a colourful empty candy bag floating in the pond. “Yes. The lady that looked after Skittles for me died, so now he’s stuck following me when I work and it’s not ideal. He’s an indoor cat.”

“Skittles.”

“Yes.”

“You never told me you had a cat before.” Mikey sounds bewildered and skeptical at the same time.

“I’m telling you now.”

“What kind of cat is it?” Mikey needles.

“A siamese. Please, Mikey. I trust you. Worst case, you can hoist Skittles over on Peters until I get home. Then I can take him with me to Douglas. But you know Doug is scatterbrained and I’d prefer if Skittles wouldn’t go forgotten for days at a time.”

“Huh. But… _Skittles_?” The name amuses Mikey. The oddity of it was suppose to make it more credible and distract from the fact that Sasha’s never mentioned a cat before.

“Eyy. A name as good as any. Can you do it?”

“Of course. Have him sent over and I’ll take care of him,” Mikey says, smirk carrying in his voice.

Sasha fist pumps internally. “Thank you, baby.”

“Hey, it’s no problem. It’s not like I’ve got much to do now that I’m not playing hockey. It’s just same old, same old, working with Saul, Babyface, and lately I’ve been helping Casy with his thesis. So what’s Skittles like?”

“He’s got blue eyes and is a bit of an asshole. He likes cuddles, and then he doesn’t. You’ll figure out. I’ve got to go now, baby. My partner’s waiting,” Sasha deflects.

Mikey laughs. “Alright. We good again?”

“Yeah, baby boy. We good,” Sasha says with a soft, warm smile. 

“Alright. Talk to you later then.”

“We will. Kisses. Bye.”

Once they’ve hung up Sasha has a minor freak out. _Not_ because he ended a phone call to a бог брат with “kisses”, which is insane in its own right. (Fuck sake, _what_ was he thinking?) But because now he’s in a hurry to make a lie true. He hurries back to the hotel and flings the door open. He does it in such a rush that Mitch flinches and goes for his gun before he sees it’s Sasha. “Drop whatever you’re doing. I’ve shot myself in the foot.” Mitchell looks alarmed and throws a look towards Sasha’s feet. “We need to acquire an adult blue eyed male siamese cat right _now_. His name will be Skittles and he has to be a bit of an asshole, like cuddles, then don’t like cuddles.”

Mitch lips twitch in amusement, then he breaks out laughing. “Holy crap you should see your face! You look like we had a SWAT team descending on us any second. You had me worried.” Mitch grins, grabs his jacket and stands up. “Come on then, let’s go get your psycho girlfriend her cat.”

Luckily for Sasha, it turns out that finding a cat that’s a bit of an asshole with cuddly-mood swings (the personality part was what Sasha had worried the most about) isn’t that hard at all. And siamese all have blue eyes. Sasha lets Mitch take the lead, first by calling a breeder, then getting the phone number of a siamese rescue center. There’s where they find ‘Skittles’ (originally named Phantom), a 12 year old neutered seal point coloured male with a lofty attitude. They’ve had trouble finding a home for him due to his age. Sasha doesn’t see it as a problem that the cat is old. And money for vet care and special food and anything else an old animal might need is even less of a bother. If things work out like he thinks it will, Skittles will have a nice last home, and if everything goes to shit… well. At least no kittens will end up dying when their lives have just begun. Speaking of kittens, they spend an extra hour at the rescue so Mitch can play with a bunch of kittens. It’s no problem as Sasha gets some extra time to bond with Skittles. Skittles is very particular with where he wants to be petted. He switches between purring and biting back to purring if you move your hand half an inch wrong on his belly. Sasha likes it. He can only hope Mikey will too.

* * *


	18. Late Cavalry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha is checking their mail.

* * *

Mitch is driving, humming along with the music on the radio while Sasha’s killing time reading answers from their Craig’s list ad. 

“Anything of interest?” Mitch asks during a commercial break in the music.

“Depends,” Sasha answers without looking up.

“Depends on what?”

“Depends if you need to buy viagra, cialis, or want to make a penis enlargment.”

Mitch laughs and Sasha sniggers. Sasha’s gone back to playing his reverse game of Simon says a great portion of the time, reminding himself that nothing’s changed, workwise. It’s not easy. Not after starring together in the supernatural version of a buddy cop movie. Sasha thinks a lot about that last night in the haunted house. Killing Joe had been a bit anti-climatic. But then again, if you come prepared with the right equipment, nothings very hard to kill. No, what he kept thinking about is Janie. He’s pretty sure what they saw was a human soul making its way toward heaven or whatever afterlife there was. He can’t let go of that. It had been so incredibly beautiful. So bright. It had appeared white, but bearing a multitude of colours at the same time. Like the multicoloured fractures of sunlight shining through a crystal. No. That doesn’t even come close to describe it. It hadn’t been white, it had been _bright_ , but in several shifting colours. What colours could be seen in the halo that had surrounded it like a sun flare. He wishes he could bottle the beauty up and wear it like a medallion. He wonders if there is any beauty left in his own corrupted soul, if it ever was as pretty. It wouldn’t surprise him if he was born flawed.

Suddenly he bursts out in a string of vehement curses in Russian.

“What?” Mitch asks and turns his head to look at Sasha with an inquisitive eyebrow raised.

“One of the replies. No name, just an alias as a sender. From ‘TrickAndTreat,” Sasha says with a deep scowl on his face. “Listen to this:”

`Heya Bucko,`

`Word of advice, stay away from the hunting business and leave it to the big boys who knows what they’re doing. You’ll just end up hurting yourself, and we’ll have to scrape your sorry remains from the walls.`

`On second thought, you’ll be better off knowing this.`

`Salt repels ghosts and demons. Neither can cross salt, so you can pour a ring of salt around you and wait inside like a good gal until the cavalry arrives. Unless you’re dealing with a demon. They’re crafty critters and they’ll get through it if they’re wearing meatsuits. Ghosts tend to dumb down over the years.`

`So don’t put your nose where it doesn’t belong. Just give me the address of the cause of your ‘bump in the night’ problem and we’ll take care of it. You don’t have to worry your pretty little head.`

`- G`

Mitch lets out a disbelieving laughter. “The _gall_! What a dickbag!”

“Fucking asshole.”

“Yeah, but on the other hand, we got a legit answer. Too bad it came too late,” Mitch says, grinning widely. “But what on earth made him think we’re female?”

“I don’t think he does,” Sasha says, mouth twisted into a sour grimace. “He’s just being a little shit.” Sasha taps away on the laptop, typing a reply.

“You’re answering him?”

“Of course.”

“What are you writing?”

“Hold on. I’ll read it to you once I’ve finished.” Sasha says and completes the letter while Mitch waits. Mitch turns down the radio and focuses on the road. “There. All done. This is what I wrote:”

`Dear Mr G,`

`My sincere thanks for your polite and kind answer. Your faith in me is encouraging, and I’m in awe of the size of your member! I could never compete with that. The knowledge you imparted was very useful.`

`Unfortunately, it came a bit too late. We had already figured it out on our own. However, since you seem to be sitting on information that can be useful to us, I’ll tell you what we’ve deducted so far in our investigations, and I’d appreciate if you could confirm or deny our findings. Hopefully add to them? I might add, that we will not cease our dabblings, whether you choose to aid us or not.`

`Vampires - They’re not repelled by crosses, they can’t run with their legs shot to pieces, silver hurts them, and the only way to kill them is to chop their heads off. (Female vampire possibly still alive in Arlington, WA)`

`Werewolves - Silver hurts them. (No IRL encounters, just found traces from their claws in WY)`

`Ghosts - They can’t cross salt and salt hurts them. They gather energy from their surroundings to manifest, disturbing electricity as they do. EMF meters can be used to measure their presence. Iron hurts them. No force is necessary as mere contact will be painful for them, dissolving them temporarily. They’re locked here by an anchor - either their remains or an object. Destroy the object to kill the ghost, or finish their unfinished business for them and they’ll let go of this world themselves. The EMF meter helps pinpoint their anchor and they cause less disturbance to electricity the closer to their anchor they are, as they need to draw less energy from their surrounding. They seem to forget their identity with time, only remembering the reason that binds them here. They retain some of the beliefs and ideations they had as living, which restricts them and can be exploited while working with them. (Two ghosts banished in Carmelita City, NM)`

`Assorted creatures - different metals hurt different creatures and putting them in contact with different metals can help identify them.`

`That’s what we got so far. Like I said, any help would be appreciated. But we’re doing this. Don’t underestimate our capacity for problem solving or getting our hands dirty. Would you agree to a meeting? Discussing this matter eye to eye would be a much more fruitful avenue of communication.`

`Respectful regards,`   
`James`

Mitchell chuckles. “Love your little bitch fit at the beginning,” he says. “But are you sure it’s a good idea to give up so much information?”

“If the guy’s the real deal, we’ve got no reason to withhold what we know. If he isn’t?” Sasha shrugs. “I’d say we send this and see what happens. You’ve got something you want to add?”

“No, I’m good. Go ahead and send it.”

Sasha hits enter and―still feeling a bit peevish about the insulting email―goes back to musing about souls. Can you live without one? Can you be born without one? Is that why _Otac_ is how he is? Is Mikey hallucinating or seeing souls when he talks about light? How does his own soul look like? Do the colours of the soul vary from person to person? Is it possible to capture a soul? (If so, he wants one.) Are each soul made anew or do they wander? Do all living things have souls? The questions are endless. He wants to discuss this with Michael. He thinks (hopes) Mikey will be able to answer some of these questions.

* * *


	19. A Man Can Dream...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After having ditched Mitchell and spent a couple of days with Doug and Bendi, Sasha takes some time off to go shopping before he continues to Pete. His head is full of Mikey, which influences his shopping somewhat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little cameo here... ;)

* * *

Sasha stares into the window of the lingerie shop. There are some beautiful items on display, and Sasha finds himself picturing Mikey in them.

_Who’d have thought I’d ever be into cross dressing men?_

_But no. Not really cross dressing…_

The thought of Mikey in full drag, or actually _trying_ to look like a woman is not sexy at all. But in all his masculine glory, dressed in a pair of black lace panties, perhaps paired with a pair of black nylon stay-ups, and a black hair clip decorated with diamonds or swarovski crystals. And a black velvet choker with a diamond pendant, cuff bracelets to match, double gun holster on and knife in hand… Maybe a line of kohl under his eyes to accentuate the mad gleam in his blue eyes…

_Fuck, that’d be so hot!_

Not that there’s much chance of convincing Mikey… but a man can dream, right? So without further adieu he enters the shop. It’s a large and well stocked shop, with all kinds of lingerie. A few customers are grazing the shop, mostly women, and he walks around looking, stroking fabric, picturing it on Mikey. He loves sexy underwear and other accessories when it comes to sex. He’d appreciated that a lot with Anna. That he could buy her stuff to wear, to enhance their sexlife. Not that Mikey and he needed it per se, but he enjoys it nevertheless. Different clothes, underwear, accessories, jewelry. He’d probably like costumes too. Have Mikey dress up in Navy officer dress whites, or full swat gear, or an assasin’s creed costume… complete with delicate panties and stay ups hidden underneath. He almost has to pace himself, or he’ll get a semi from just thinking about it. And it’s not a roleplaying thing. He could indulge in roleplay if that was something Mikey was into, but he just liked the visual stimulation and the mixed sensation that came with it.

He finds a bargain bin with an assortment of panties in it. All colours, materials, and types.

_I wonder what it would take to convince my baby boy to put these on?_

He holds up a pair of string panties, but frowns. 

_No, that’s not what I want. I want more skin covered. With this, he might as well be naked._

Next, he pulls up a turquoise lycra pair with white lace at the sides. They feel thin and soft, stretchy. The sensation to his hand is nice, even if they don’t look much to the world.

_Maybe that’s it. They need to be comfortable. Timing would be important too, to be sure. I won’t be able to convince him when he’s in_ бог брат _mode. But when he calls me Vati perhaps? And if I do get him to put panties on, they need to be comfortable I think, or he’ll take them right off._

_How the fuck will I know if they’re comfortable?_

_I’m **not** trying them on!_

He puts the pair back and pulls up a black lacy pair with red bows. They look lovely. He looks around and sees a man standing by a rack with the latest models. He’s tall, handsome, freckled, wearing a fitted leather jacket, a tee, and a Dallas Cowboys cap. He looks almost disgustingly much like Castiel’s boyfriend, except he’s older, 35 perhaps. He even has those damned bow legs™. He’s stroking the panties before him almost lovingly, which makes Sasha wonder...

“Excuse me, Sir?” Sasha says, making the man look up. “What’s your name?”

The man looks around in surprise, unsure if he’s the one being addressed. There’s no one else close enough so he looks at Sasha with raised eyebrows and points at himself. “Me?”

“Yes you. What’s your name?”

“Jensen.”

“Hi, Jensen. I'm James. Could you come here for a second? I need your help.”

Jensen approaches, puzzled, and stops on the other side of the bargain bin. “I don’t work here,” he informs Sasha. 

Sasha quirks his lip in a lopsided smile. “I figured. But I doubt that the staff could help me with what I'm wondering about, since they're women. You shopping for your―“ Sasha casts a quick glance at Jensen’s hands and spots a wedding band, “―wife or for yourself?”

Jensen’s eyes go round and his cheeks colour, taken aback by Sasha’s question.

Sasha pummels on. “See, I'm looking for something for my boyfriend. I'd really like to see him in something like this.” Sasha holds up the black lace panties with the red bows. “But if I'm going to stand a chance to convince him to put them on, they need to be comfortable, you get what I’m sayin? And I ain’t puttin em on to try. So I was wondering if you could tell me which feel good on your junk. Which you can give a decent blow job through and all that?”

Jensen’s blushing crimson by now, eyes wide, and jaw clenching and unclenching. 

_Oy. It was worth a shot,_ Sasha thinks, preparing for Jensen to punch him or blow a fuse in public and rant obscenities at him.

Jensen opens his mouth as if to say something, closes it again, opens it, then looks around to see if there’s anyone around. When there isn’t, Jensen takes three quick strides around the bin and places him shoulder to shoulder with Sasha. With a lowered voice he says “Those look gorgeous on, but itch like hell. You don’t want those. Plus that material doesn’t stretch well over…” he makes an awkward gesture downward.

Sasha wants to laugh out loud in surprise. He’d taken a wild chance based on how Jensen had been stroking the panties. He hadn’t _actually_ thought it’d pan out. He files this to the back of his mind to laugh about later, and nods seriously, looking at Jensen as if he’s being given expert advice. (Which, apparently, he is.) “So what would you recommend?”

“Um…” Jensen digs in the bin and takes up another pair of lace panties. “See these? They’re just as, um, pretty. But feel the material. They are soft and stretch.” He hands Sasha the pair. “As for BJs…” Jensen’s cheeks, which had lost some of their embarrassed glow, turn red again. He keeps talking though, pretending that the topic isn’t mortifying for him. “My wife says... “ he rummages around and finds another cute pair. Its fabric is ultra thin and stretchy, with no embellishments except a little bow in the front. “...that this kind of fabric doesn’t dry her mouth out when she… on me, I mean. You know what I mean.” 

Sasha nods.

“Satin feels fantastic on, I can tell you, but it’s useless for BJs according to her.”

“Feels nice to rub one’s cheek against though,” Sasha offers.

Jensen chortles and blushes more. “Yeah it does. Fuck, this is awkward,” he says with a sheepish grin and rubs his neck.

Sasha smiles and shrugs a shoulder with an amused sturgeon face. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell on you. I’m grateful for the help. Want to help me pick out a couple of pairs?”

Jensen drags a hand over his face, eyes wide in an _is-this-really-happening_ -way. “Um… Yeah. Sure. I can do that. Why not?”

Once Jensen gets started he leads Sasha around in the shop and shows him different models and types, talks about how they feel like to wear, lists pros and cons. He changes topic or goes quiet anytime anyone else is in their vicinity, but all in all shows himself to be rather passionate about the topic. Sasha’s dumb enough to ask him jokingly if he’s wearing a pair right now. Jensen looks around quickly, then pulls his tee out of his jeans and tugs the jeans down half an inch at the front so Sasha gets a look at the edge of a pair of white lace panties with pink trimming. It’s a mental tease of huge proportions and demonstrates to Sasha exactly how far his sexuality has shifted into full bisexuality. “Oh, that’s gorgeous. Better tuck your shirt in before I start having thoughts about you, that you might find offensive,” Sasha says and winks.

Jensen smirks cockily, but yet again blushes. “As long as you keep it in your head, buddy,” he answers.

“Fair enough.”

Sasha thanks Jensen and goes to pay while Jensen goes back to browsing. He’s got six pairs of panties of different varieties, one pair of nylon stay ups, and a pair of thigh high socks with broad black and purple stripes across. He buys it all, along with a 1000 dollar gift certificate. He writes “Thanks for helping me. /James” on it, and before he leaves the store, he goes back to Jensen. He claps him on the shoulder while squeezing through between Jensen and a rack, discreetly slipping the gift certificate into Jensen’s back pocket beside his wallet. “Have a nice day, and thanks,” he says smiling and heads towards the door. 

“You too. And good luck,” Jensen answers with a wave.

Sasha wishes he could see Jensen discover the gift. But you can’t always get what you want. He visits a jewelry store to buy accessories to the underwear too.

Now the real question is how he’ll convince Michael to try on the things he’s just bought…

* * *


	20. Too Good To Be True?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha makes a stop by one of the brothers on his way home to Michael, to gauge the possibilities of recruiting one of 'his boys' as an ally for Doug. Once there he realises that maybe he's been a bit too preoccupied with his own scheming to remember to think about the scheming of others. As vast as he considers his plans to be, he's simply not thinking big enough...

* * *

Бог брат Peter, 32 years old, using the surname Mac Dhè, is another of the boys Sasha thinks of as ‘his’. He headed several shipping companies. (Sasha’s not sure of the exact number, since not all were ‘official’, and many were owned by shell companies.) Ships, trains, trucks, fucking donkeys―if logistics were involved, so was he. Sasha follows the бог брат into his penthouse suite at the top floor of the skyscraper. Pete’s dressed in a tailored three piece suit, expensive watch, short brown hair immaculate, and is wearing an expression of perpetual superiority. He looks like he hasn’t smiled for decades, always looking down on others.

As they step inside he turns to his security detailing trailing them. “Leave us. I don’t wish to be disturbed,” he says haughtily.

“Yes, Sir бог брат.” They answer as one and backs out of the penthouse. When they’re gone he locks the doors and turns to Sasha.

“Make yourself comfortable. If you’re hungry, use the intercom in the kitchen,” he says and gestures vaguely in a direction down a corridor “and the staff will send your order up through the dumbwaiter. Feel free to raid my storage of drinks as per your preference. I’ll be right back.” 

“Thank you, Sir,” Sasha answers. But Pete has already turned and is striding away from him, back straight and gait elegant and graceful. Sasha shrugs inwardly, hangs up his jacket, takes off his boots, and goes in the direction Pete had indicated. Peter owned the whole building, adjacent to the building (which he also owned) where he kept his offices. Unlike Mikey, who also owned the building he was living in, he didn’t have unaffiliated tenants in the apartments. His building was inhabited solely of Croatoans and other staff members. That of course went hand in hand with his chosen cover profession. A hockey star―no matter how well paid―isn’t expected to live as luxuriously as the owner of successful worldwide enterprises. Pete didn’t even try to cover the fact that he had a massive security staff. He didn’t have to. A majority of them even wore uniforms, with a `Heimdallr Security` badge on. They had epaulettes with stripes declaring their rank, and a little symbol neatly showing their affiliation - hammer, chameleon, bluetooth rune, sniper scope, a wrench crossing a screwdriver, even a red cross. Sasha’s not sure what all those symbols are supposed to mean. One thing is clear―things are run differently here and it needs to be explored. He’d noted as much when he inspected the building while waiting for Pete to come home.

Some of the apartments in the building were empty, used for visitors. Others had been converted to offices and conference rooms used for _Porodica_ business. Pete’s penthouse was two storied, had a big sun deck, an outdoor pool that had been glassed in because of the sucky weather in these parts, spa, dojo, gym, salon, four bedrooms, kitchen, cinema, bathrooms, showers, and even a small garden. And while every piece of furniture and decor screamed **MONEY** on top its lungs, it was also classy, comfortable, and invited relaxation. It was light and airy and felt like a _home_ , something many luxury homes failed to achieve.

Sasha makes his way in the direction Pete had indicated, finds the kitchen and opens one of the fridges. It’s stocked with an assortment of soft drinks and beers. Sasha picks a beer label he’s never tried, opens it with the opener on his keychain, then goes in search for the salon. It’s a nice large room overlooking the cityscape and the deck through a glass wall. It has a fireplace, soft looking couches and armchairs in creamy white leather, marble living room tables and sideboards, huge TV, sound system, beautiful art on the walls, and a bar in one corner.

He sits down and grabs one of the remotes, intending to start the TV. Instead the music system starts and Pink Floyd’s ‘Money’ comes streaming from the speakers. He chuckles to himself. “Fair enough,” he says, pulls up his legs on the couch and lies down, resting his beer on his chest. He might as well listen to music while he waits. He closes his eyes and mouths along with the lyrics quietly.

A little while later he hears Pete come shuffling into the room. Sasha opens his eyes and has to stop himself from grinning widely, because _this_ man is his Pete.

Pete has changed into a pair of grey sweatpants with holes by the knees and stains no amounts of washing could erase. They hang loosely on his hips and are paired with a blue cookie monster shirt that must be at least fifteen years old. His hair―so immaculate earlier―has been made a mess of. He's barefoot, and whilst he still moves with grace, the rigidity has been lost. A certain level of refinement in movements is to be expected from someone whose hobby is Tai Chi and who dabbles in contemporary dancing. Sasha couldn’t care less for contemporary dancing, but he thinks Tai Chi may be the most beautiful form of Kung Fu. 

Pete goes to the bar and fetches a beer for himself. Sasha removes his feet from the couch when Pete comes to sit down. Pete chooses to sit in the same couch as Sasha, despite having a lot of other places to choose. “Your visit is unexpected, Aleksandr,” he says. “Is anything amiss?” He takes a swig of beer and looks at Sasha with keen eyes.

“No. Not as such, Sir―“

Pete frowns in frustration. “We’re in private, and you’re on the A-list, Aleksandr. No need for formalities unless you feel more comfortable using them. I swear, I hear ‘sir’, ‘бог брат’, and ‘Mr. Mac Dhè’ so often I barely remember my own name.”

“How about I call you Pete?” Sasha braves.

Pete raises his eyebrows in surprise. While it had been okay to call them by their nicknames as teachers at the Heart when they were kids, this was taking a chance. Sasha’s been getting bolder. And with how Pete had taken to him as a young boy, he thinks the informality will be accepted. “Do you have a nickname, Aleksandr?” Pete asks after a beat, surprise shifting into thoughtfulness.

“Sasha.”

“Okay. While we’re in private, Sasha, you can call me Pete. But do it in front of my brothers or other Croatoans and you’re in deep shit, you hear me?”

“Duly noted.”

Pete relaxes further into the couch. “Do you know what your name means? It’s very fitting, considering your profession.”

Sasha shrugs and takes a swig of his beer. “Never thought about it.”

“It means ‘Defender’, ‘Protector of Man’. Sasha means the same thing.”

Sasha makes an interested sturgeon face. “I don’t know about that. ‘Menace to the society’ would be more fitting.”

Pete grins. That haughty stony faced mask is gone. “No doubt the society would dub you as such since you’re working for us. But the fact remains that big operations you lead have consistently the lowest rate of collateral damage amongst civilians. Which is good for business. Tyle told me about one of the missions you did, leading his security on an inspection. The one where you were ambushed?”

Sasha nods. He remembers it clearly. They’d been heading to a cocaine lab in Colombia because the numbers they reported didn’t add up. In the hills where ordinary coca farmers were harvesting bushes, they’d been ambushed by the people who ran the lab. They fancied themselves up’n’coming drug lords who didn’t need some mysterious organisation stealing half their profit. They didn’t know they were dealing with the _Porodica_ , nor that the _Porodica_ had endless resources for retribution. Of course, none of that matters during an attack. Then it’s just those then and there who counts. A small, frightened gesture of warning from a sixteen year old boy farming the shrubs had given Sasha about a minute to prepare his people and Tyle, or the ambush might have been successful. It was the mission when he’d saved Tyler’s life, and made up for the care he’d gotten after the pit fight.

“Tyle said that you put any farmer within close enough reach, under your protection, keeping them safe too,” Pete goes on.

“They had nothing to do with the conflict, and gave us warning. Besides, it’s stupid to let experienced workers be eliminated. They’d be replaced soon enough, sure. But new workers needs to learn the trade, and it’d slow down production temporarily.”

Pete shakes his head with a smirk. “Tyle and Mikey think you’re idealistic. I’ve never viewed you as such. I consider you practical.” Sasha wants to burst out a ‘ _Thank you! Fucking finally!_ ’ about _not_ being seen like some kind of selfless hero for once. And during the ambush in question, it had just been a matter of herding the farmers out of the way and into a defensible position, rather than letting them be caught in the line of fire. He keeps his mouth shut though. “The result is the same,” Pete goes on. “Ordinary people are safer, remain oblivious, and keep buying our services without making a fuss. And your name is still apt, no matter what the motivation behind it may be.”

Sasha bows his head, conceding to Pete’s point. This is definitely a interpretation of himself he can get behind.

Pete looks at him for a while, like he’s considering something. Then he sighs, pulls his legs up on the couch, shifts so he’s got his back leaned against the armrest, and pulls his knees up towards his chest. He runs a hand over his face. “Can we talk off the record? Just between you and me?”

It’s Sasha’s turn to be surprised. He wasn’t expecting this just yet, nor that Pete’d be the one to ask for it. “Of course.”

“No. It’s nothing ‘of course’ about it. We all trust you to some extent, or you wouldn’t have gotten the status you did. Why the hell _Otac_ approved it eludes me though. It goes against everything he’s told us. Yet more than half of us were fully on board with the idea from the getgo. I don’t think all of us had the same motives behind that as I do. If we talk off the record, I may say things I don’t want my brothers to find out. I’m fairly certain I will. You may not want to carry that, as it goes beyond what we can demand of a Croatoan. So I ask you again, can we talk off the record?”

“My answer is still ‘of course’,” Sasha says with a small upward quirk of the corners of his lips. He’s not sure if he should be counting it as a victory or be really suspicious. Possibly both. There must be a hidden reason for Pete to want to talk. He enjoys the respect Pete gives him though, first by telling him he’s welcome to keep the distance by keep using ‘Sir’, then asking him to think before he agrees to go off the record.

“Then anything said until we step out of this apartment, stays between us.” Pete looks at Sasha with raised eyebrows, waiting for confirmation. Sasha nods. Pete takes a sip of beer before he goes on. “We grew up living practically on top of each other. We had our own rooms once we turned ten, but you know how we were just as likely to sleep together. Solitude was a rare commodity back home. We were trained for fucking everything. Everything but _this_.” Pete makes a broad sweeping gesture to the apartment in general. “Nothing prepared me for the loneliness. I don’t know how the others manage, but it’s driving me _insane_. The others rarely visit, and phone calls won’t cut it. I enjoy solitude, but not loneliness. That’s _my_ motivation to jumping on the bandwagon with the A-list. To have some people outside of my family that I can relax and be myself around. At least, it’s part of my motive.”

“No smart Croatoan would report you for being personal with them,” Sasha says and takes a swig of his beer. He turns his body towards Pete, pulling one leg up underneath him on the couch and laying his arm on the backrest, giving him full attention.

“Some might. But that's not the issue, nor do I fear it. You think everyone is comfortable with being up close and personal with a бог брат? Think again. Most people get the jitters, including ordinary people.” Sasha makes note of Pete’s use of ‘ordinary people’ instead of ‘mudmonkeys’, as well as his use of ‘Croatoans’ instead of the derogatory term ‘croat’. Peter goes on. “I feel like king Midas. I'm so powerful that few dare speak to me in a relaxed manner. They moderate every word that comes out of their mouths. During my years away from home I've punished a Croatoan four times, tops, and still my security staff all but bows at the sight of me. It's exhausting.” 

“Then put some normal clothes on, shake your security tail, and go to a club. Pick up some chick or guy that catches your fancy and bring them to a motel. If they don’t know you’re a god amongst mortals they won’t treat you as such.”

“You got a point, but there’s two flaws in that. One, I’m not interested in sex. It’s never been more than a chore to me. And two, I miss someone to talk to. I can’t talk to ordinary people about my life. You know that. You don’t tell your girlfriends what you do, either, do you?”

“Of course not.”

“But I suppose you’d tell your boyfriends?” Pete says, getting a mischievous glint in his eyes and a cheeky smirk on his face.

Sasha’s instantly on his guard, thumbing his ring unconsciously. 

_He can’t know about Mikey, can he?_

“What do you mean?”

Pete rolls his eyes. “Oh come on. Don’t be coy. It’s common knowledge that you hooked up with that transgendered Croatoan.”

Sasha relaxes again and scowls in annoyance. “You’re such a bunch of gossip girls,” he says and gestures at Pete with his beer. Pete cackles in delight. This is probably exactly what he missed, so Sasha keeps the put-upon act going. “One would think you’d be busy ruling the world, but oooh no. You’re busy on the gossip hotline, talking about the lovelife of your Croatoans. _Pffft._ What’s it to you, anyway? Why are you so interested?”

Pete grins impishly. “Because it’s funny. Remember when you taught us back in 98? There was a Croatoan named Harvey something. Worked security. Red hair, pale skin. Irish. Remember him?”

“Yeah, yeah. Harvey Byrne. Nice guy. I was sad to hear about him kicking the bucket a couple of years ago.”

“That’s him. He was crushing on you _so_ hard. But you were so straight you didn’t even get it. All his come ons and invites just passed you right by.” To demonstrate, Pete moves his hand in a swiping gesture in front of his head while making a whistling noise.

“Really? You sure about that?”

Pete laughs and nods. “Positive. I swear, when he laid eyes on you the first time, the heart eyes emoji was invented. He wasn’t even subtle about it. We were having a blast watching his increasingly desperate tries to get your attention. Ask any of us that were over the age of ten that year, and they’ll confirm. Even _Otac_ would watch you two from his window sometimes, laughing. Us браћа had a bet going, on whether you’d ever get with the program, or at least _notice_.”

Sasha chuckles in bemusement. “Anyone of you betting on me and him getting together?”

“Only one of us. Some of us _wanted_ you to. Me, Mikey, Demi, and Tyle. If nothing else to end Harvey’s misery. But only Mal thought he stood a chance. Mal said you’d probably react defensively at first, but that you’d only need time to adjust to the thought. But you were totally oblivious. I remember when you and Harvey came home drunk after a night off. He was hanging of your shoulder, barely able to stand, and looking at you like you hung the moon. He said ‘You’re soo _hot_ ’ and kissed your cheek, and you _still_ didn’t get it! You just puffed up your chest and said ‘Yeah. That’s why all the girls want me’.”

Now Sasha has to laugh along with Pete. Looking back on their interactions now, it’s plain as day. “Eyy. I’d just been stationed in the Middle East. Men kiss each other on the cheeks there. And before that it was France, and Belgium. I didn’t see anything out of ordinary with his behaviour. ‘Ts a shame. That was a union that could have worked for me.” He doubts he’d fall in love with Harvey, but it might have worked. And there’d be none of the power imbalance that haunted his and Mikey’s relationship.

“ _Really_? You’re into men too now? Not just transgendered ones?”

“I’ve had time to adjust,” Sasha says with a smirk and wiggles his eyebrows, making Pete crack up laughing again.

“It’s a shame Mal’s not alive to cash in on his winnings. So when did you realize you’re into both men and women for real? Most of my brothers don’t make a distinction between transgendered people and others, despite the difference in anatomy, but I do, and I think you do too.”

This is walking a tightrope. He has to be careful with what he says. Pete’s right about the anatomy part. Seeing a dick as something arousing had taken some time. That’s not why he needs to be careful. He takes another sip of his beer to think how to voice his thoughts without giving away Mikey’s identity. “Yesterday, actually. I have a few regular hookups, of which one is a guy. I’ve figured it’s the friendship, knowing each other so well, that makes me pop a boner at the sight of him. I know what I’m about to get, you get what I’m sayin? So yesterday I was walking through a mall and there was this lingerie shop. I stopped to picture him wearing some of the panties on display. So I went inside…” He proceeds to tell the story of how he met Jensen, and how he’d gotten turned on by seeing the edge of Jensen’s panties. And that’s how he realised he truly swung both ways these days, since he didn’t know Jensen at all, and no touch was involved to get things going. He enjoys Pete’s delight at the second hand embarrassment in the story, embellishing both his and Jensen’s awkwardness for entertainment value.

They keep talking, getting new beers, Pete joining him for cigarettes out on the deck a couple of times, smoking along with him. Pete is also surprisingly gossipy about his brothers and his own feelings. Just to keep track of his lies, Sasha goes with the story he’s been feeding Mitchell when asked about having any love interest. This openness (which he enjoys, by all means) is still ringing his alarm bells. Trust is a rare commodity and has to be tested. This is the kind of relaxed relationship he _wants_ with ‘his’ boys. But Pete initiating it seems too good to be true. With Doug it had taken the necessity of closeness due to being entrusted with knowing of Bendi’s existence, with Tyle it was saving his life that had sealed the deal.

“So what’s her name?” Pete asks, voice getting a bit slurred by now.

Sasha smirks. He too is a bit buzzed. “I’ll tell you that when you admit to falling in love yourself. Trading treasure for treasure.”

Pete chuckles and puts his feet up on the living room table in front of him. He leans his head back and looks at the ceiling. “Yeah… that’s not going to happen.” He rolls his head to look at Sasha from under heavy eyelids. “With all due respect, Sash. I don’t think the price we’d have to pay for a slip is remotely the same.”

Sasha shrugs and drains a beer. “Fair enough. On the other hand, my predicament isn’t too far off from your own. My profession poses a danger to anyone I love. They may be used against me. It’s bad enough that you guys are under constant threat just by being божја браћа. You at least are trained in self-defense and have Croatoans and pawns to protect you. Any woman I fall in love with won’t have that. Keeping her a secret as well as keeping her in the dark, is the only way I can protect her.”

Pete makes a sturgeon face. “True. I guess I don’t spend much time thinking about what sacrifices a Croatoan have to make. I think more of what we need to give you guys, to make it worth it.”

Sasha gets to his feet to fetch more beer. “Oy. Wanna know a secret?”

“Sure.”

“Those times I’ve gotten to teach at the Heart, is part of what makes it worth it. Playing with you, seeing you grow, being allowed to be part of that… I’m never going to father kids of my own. I’m real fucking thankful I got to help raise you, and get to know you as the individuals you really are. It makes my work something more than just duty. Serving you comes naturally because of it. Some of you are firmly lodged here,” he fists his hand and hits his heart to demonstrate.”You get what I’m sayin?” It’s the hardcore truth and he wants to get it across.

Pete grins lazily. “Yes, I do. I get it.”

Sasha nods and stumbles off to the kitchen. He comes back with four beers at once and puts them on the table. Both of them takes a new beer and Pete starts talking childhood memories that has them in stitches or getting misty eyed from nostalgia. Pete, as a child and teenager, was quite reserved in the company of his brothers, but could talk like he needn’t breathe when one-on-one. That seemingly hasn’t changed.

Sasha is getting drunker than he should be. He goes for pushing the limits, trying out how personal he can be. “We’re a 100% off the record now, Pete?”

“Yup.”

“There’s something I want to ask you. It’s a sensitive, _personal_ question that I might get in trouble for asking. It’s simply none of my business, and I know it.”

“Hey, if I don’t want to answer it, I won’t. But now I wonder what question you think I may find so disturbing, considering how personal we’ve been. Shoot.”

It might be dumb, and had he been more sober he wouldn’t have asked, but… “Were you one of Addi’s _special_ brothers?”

The question takes Pete off guard, and he whistles lowly. “Oh, boy. You were right. That’s none of your business. How do you even know about that?”

“You asked before how the other божја браћа handle the isolation. The answer is, some of them don’t. I will die before I sell out your secrets even to each other. Some of you know that, Pete, and they confide. You don’t want to answer? Forget I asked. But your personal secrets are as safe with me as how your organisation is run.”

Pete scrutinises him and purses his lips.

He’s quiet for so long that Sasha gets antsy. “Forget about it―“ he says and makes a dismissive gesture, but Pete cuts him off.

“Yes. I was. You sure you want to carry this on your shoulders? I wouldn’t mind getting to talk about this with someone outside of the family.”

“I can take it, or I wouldn’t have asked. But if you feel that way, you ever considered therapy?” Sasha asks, keeping Mikey in mind.

Pete sniggers. “I did, actually. I went to therapy. In secret, of course. But it was useless, because if you talk to a therapist you have to be honest both with them and yourself. I couldn’t be honest with him, and as much as I tried to reshape the setting to seem more normal, it’s still taken out of context. I couldn’t exactly tell him how I was raised and what my family does for a living.” Pete grins and shakes his head. “Patient confidentiality or not, if I’d told him that we made our first kills at the age of four, our father guiding our hands holding the scalpel, showing us where the vein by the throat is, while drilling into our skulls that any human not sharing our last name is inferior to us… yeah, no. I couldn’t give him the full context. Hence, therapy was more or less useless. But you already know these things. So if you’re willing to listen, I’m willing to talk.”

Sasha makes a gesture for him to continue, feeling a lot more sober now.

Pete takes a deep drink from his beer then dries his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m fairly certain my disinterest in sex stems from Addi’s affection. I’m not sure, since I’m pretty certain Luci has the same aversions as me, but he was never touched by Addi. Asexuality my therapist called it.” Pete shrugs. “He also said I could be cured of it. I was more than a little offended by that. I don’t have any wish to engage in sexual activity with anyone else, nor is it causing me any problem in my life. I said to him, ‘so you're suggesting I subject myself to corrective rape?’” Pete chuckles. “In his defense, he was quick to assure me that it wasn't what he meant. He said there was nothing wrong with being asexual, and if I was happy with things the way they were, then that's fine. He meant that if I had the drive and the wish, but abstained because it was triggering, then we could work towards curing it, so I could live life the way I choose, not being held back by my…” Pete looks at Sasha with a raised eyebrow. “Just to be clear, you _do_ know we’re talking about sexual molestation, right?”

Sasha nods. “I am.”

“Good. Because I didn’t figure that out until I was about 25. You get told over and over that something is right, you think you’re the one in the wrong. Especially when you’re a child. Addi discovered sex when he was 10, along with Solo. By then it was fairly innocent, I suppose. Making out, jerking each other off. I was curious, wondering what they were doing, trying to watch. Solo always told me to go away, because I was too young. Addi came to me about a year later, when I was 5. Said he’d show me how love between big boys was expressed… He was all very hush hush about it in the beginning, because Solo disapproved. I swear if those two could marry and have babies, they would,” he says and shakes his head with an amused smile.

“Was it still what you’d call innocent?”

“What he did to me? Yes. I was 7 when he suddenly started to escalate it. I think he and the older ones had gone the full mile by then. If you walked in on them, Addi wanted you to join or watch. Solo wasn’t so keen, nor were the others.”

“When you say ‘the others’ you mean Mal and Demi, right?”

“Yes. They discovered their sexuality quite enthusiastically. But they turned their attention outside of the family a lot sooner than Solo and Addi. When we wanted girls, we’d get them. All we had to do was ask _Otac_.”

“Did _Otac_ ever touch you that way?”

“No. He’s never been anything but paternal in his care.” Which corroborates Mikey’s tale. Pete is relaxed and seems to have no problem whatsoever talking about this. If anything, his expression is one of mild curiosity about what questions Sasha will ask.

“Did he ever watch?”

“No. If he caught us doing it, he’d give us a pleased smile and leave us alone. Our behaviour was encouraged. But we were told to keep it out of sight from you Croatoans and other staff, because, and I quote, ‘You weren’t worthy of seeing Sin-Božji love up close’.” 

The day _Otac_ dies can’t come too soon. Sasha keeps his intense hate off his face. “What I don’t understand is why _Otac_ encouraged sex at such a young age,” Sasha says. “If he doesn’t have phedopilic inclinations, why would he want his sons to have sex so early?”

“I’ve thought about that. But it’s fairly obvious. He had an idea of how he wanted us to act and think as adults, and a person’s main attitudes are shaped in childhood. The younger a child is when a behaviour is taught, the more cemented it is in adulthood, and the harder it is to change it. This way we learned the desired type of love and pleasure from each other, and at the same time cemented the supposed lower value of ordinary people.”

“Returning to Addi. Did you ever ask him to stop?”

Pete turns his head away to look into the fireplace where flames dance merrily. “No. And this is the part where I really couldn't talk openly with my therapist. Because of our unconventional upbringing, we didn't necessarily react like normal children. There’s no shroud of shame over what we did. It was encouraged and painted as the highest form of love amongst brothers. And when the Uncles came to visit they left no doubt that they and _Otac_ love each other deeply and enjoy each other in every possible way. Not only that. When we were trained in the arts of torture, we were trained to understand and withstand pain by being subjected to it too. All these things would send a therapist's head spinning. So no. I didn’t say no to him. I did my best to hide my dislike for what we did. My shame laid in _not_ wanting it. And you know, I was so young. Pre-puberty. There wasn’t any drive behind it, just anatomical reactions and a will to be a good little brother.”

Sasha takes a sip of his beer, itching for a cigarette to calm the rage boiling underneath. He keeps his exterior as calm and open as he can. There is a chance some of his upset bleeds through anyway, but he tries to hide it. “It wasn’t your fault. And however you feel about it, it isn’t wrong. If you loved it, that’s fine and good. If you didn’t, you have no guilt to bear. Any shame lies on the shoulders of the person that touched you. A five year old isn’t that good of an actor. Addi would’ve known you didn’t really want it, and he went through with it anyway. That’s not how you show love.”

Pete looks back at Sasha and smirks. The alcohol makes his eyelids heavy and face relaxed, but his dark navy blue eyes are keen. Drunk or not, these are not drugged confessions. “Oh, I know. If I was 25 and told you this, I would have demanded you stationed with me just so you could repeat that into infinity. Now, I don’t need you to. But thank you. It’s still good to hear it from somebody who knows my family so intimately and understand the circumstances that shape us.”

“For how long did it go on?”

“Addi moved to Australia when he was 23 and I was 17. We didn’t see each other very often after that, but he’d still make sure to get his share of brotherly love when we did see each other. He’d talk me into fairly humiliating things. You’d probably consider it vanilla, but for me it wasn’t. It went on until I was 25.”

“What happened at 25 that made you realise there was something amiss with what went on?”

“I was watching a documentary about adult children who’ve lived through incestuous sexual abuse. There was a woman on the show, who talked about what her father had done, and what he’d said, and I recognised Addi’s behaviour in her story. She had been almost 40 when she realised she had no blame in what happened to her. After watching that documentary I did some serious soul searching. I came to the conclusion that me finding sexual pleasure something to endure, probably stems from Addi’s advances.” Pete takes a swig of beer then grabs Sasha’s packet of cigarettes from the table and gestures towards the deck.

Sasha gets up and follows Pete to the deck. It’s chilly outside, but he barely feels it. They light a cig each and lean on the railing, looking out over the city. It’s night, but all the city lights keeps it from being too dark. 

Pete takes a deep drag of the cigarette and sifts the smoke out downwards. He turns his hand and studies the glowing cherry of his cigarette. “I didn’t suffer all too badly from what happened. All things considered. But there’s a lot of things that I find problematic about it. The fact that Addi too, was a child when it started, for one. I see absolutely no wrong with Addi and Solo’s romance. My biggest issue is that a big brother is supposed to protect his kid brothers. Even from themselves. And he takes pleasure in holding power over us. Did back then, still does. That’s my conclusion and my beef with him. He has a way with words…” He takes another drag of the cigarette. “But Addi’s a coward. The moment I bit back he fled in fright. Metaphorically.”

“When was that?”

“Soon after the documentary. I jumped on a plane to Australia for a surprise visit. Whooped his ass and stuck a revolver with one bullet in, in his mouth. Pulled the trigger three times. Kindly explained to him that if he at any given time got too affectionate with me, or any brother under the age of 20, I’d come back, but with only one bullet missing the next time, and still pull the trigger three times.”

“Whoah. How did you know you wouldn’t accidentally shoot him?”

Pete chuckles darkly and looks at Sasha with a crooked smirk and a raised eyebrow, his dark blue eyes appearing black in the vague light. “I didn’t.”

Sasha whistles, impressed and horrified. Horrified at how close the civil war had been 2007, and he didn’t have a clue back then. “And it worked? Why 20?”

“Yes it worked. He’s convinced I’m keeping tabs. I keep tabs on a lot of things.” He gives Sasha a pointed look that makes him wonder how much Pete knows about what goes on. “Anyway, I chose 20,” Pete goes on after letting the last statement sink in for a beat, “for several reasons. By then we’ve developed properly inflated views of ourselves, and we’ve been out in the real world for at least one year. It’s hard to force us to do anything we don’t want to, even for our brothers. None of us are virgins by then, unless we’ve made the choice not to have sex. We’ve had time to discover what we like and want sexually. I don’t condemn brotherly affection of that kind. But Addi went for us young ones and _trained_ us. Shaping us to fit his own desires is wrong. That’s not love.”

Pete pauses again, taking a swig of beer and another hit on the cigarette. “You asked before, if I ever told him no. I was curious, and he came to me at an age when I worshipped all my older brothers. I looked to them to know how to act and be. To me, they knew everything. Of course I didn’t tell him no. As I got older I had it down to a performance art. And you got to understand, Sasha, being one of his favourites came with serious perks. What we did behind closed doors was just a little part of it. He gave us gifts, took us on excursions, let us try things we were not yet allowed to. I did my very best to please him. Hell, I damned well competed for his attention. I was proud when I outdid the others to a degree that he forgot to spoil them. That I didn’t want or like what he wanted me to do, didn’t matter. It was a far cry from what was done to us in the basement. But as an adult, I find myself _angry_. I keep hoping he’ll slip up so I can go back and blow his brains out. I can’t exactly stuff a barrel of a gun in _Otac_ ’s mouth. But Addi, I can get to,” Pete says, watching Sasha.

Sasha’s pulse skyrockets. He just stepped in a sharp-toothed jaw trap, hearing the spring coil snap shut. A shot of adrenaline pumps through his body, making his mouth dry. Pete’s eyes narrow and a knowing smirk spreads on his lips. Those were dangerous words, not just to speak, but to hear. There’s no right way to respond. Not when a бог брат says them. They could be a test of his loyalty. To Pete, to the _Porodica_ , to _Otac_. There’s no telling if Pete’s still _Otac_ ’s creature or not after that statement. Or Addi’s for that matter. For once Sasha has no words. Pete chuckles darkly at his barely hidden rush of fear, flicks his cigarette over the railing and taps the side of his nose conspiratorially with a smirk that still gives nothing away of his motives for telling Sasha this―openly stating a wish to kill _Otac_.

Sasha flinches when his cigarette suddenly burns his fingers, making Pete laugh. Pete picks up Sasha’s dropped cigarette butt and flings it over the railing too. “Come on, Sash. Let’s go back inside.” 

Sasha almost _Yessirs_ , but stops himself. Should he revert to property-mode now, that may have unwanted consequences. That would be signing a contract without reading its content. Pete seems to catch the halted backbone response, smirking knowingly. At this point Sasha realises _why_ the Croatoans working for Pete are so deferring, borderline fearful, despite Pete’s respectful treatment of them. He’ll have set up clever mind traps for every last one of them. Probably not of this magnitude. No, Sasha thinks it’s been tailored to them. It means every last one of them are Pete’s private Croatoans first and foremost. The _Porodica_ in general takes second place. 

Sasha drains his beer and opens a new one as soon as they get inside. If Pete means everything he says at face value, he might _want_ a civil war. Which is a staggering thought. He’s pointed out two targets for his ire. But who else? Does he harbour grudges towards others amongst the божја браћа? Who then, and why? He’d come here to check the possibility of Pete joining side with Doug in a conflict. But suddenly, the thought that Pete is the one who sold out Leo isn’t so foreign. If he had it in him to play Russian roulette with one brother for a perceived (very valid) slight, he could have gone for another just as easily, if he doesn’t care about _Otac_ ’s rules. But that was assuming every word out of Pete’s mouth isn’t a lie.

They sit down again. Pete drags his hand through his hair, making even more of a mess out of it. He sighs. “ _Otac_ should never have let me off leash, Sash. If he wanted me to keep a hold of the illusion of being a separate breed, he shouldn’t have left me alone, without anybody to feed the idea. I’m much too socially adaptable to keep believing that I’m anything but a mortal amongst other mortals. I’m a man amongst other men. I leave pretending otherwise to my brothers. I know we are better than most at many things, and some _might_ be due to heritage. _Otac_ and the Uncles are all very intelligent. No doubt about it, and some of that intelligence they’ll have passed on to us. But a whole lot of our success is due to nurturing. We’ve been trained to rule, empathy has been hammered out of us, and we’ve had the best education money, loyalty, and fear can buy. If we suddenly should find ourselves stranded without any means and backup, many of us would be able to build our own empires if we wished to. The average Joe can’t. Not even with the proper tools. They lack the drive and the vicious ruthlessness to succeed. That’s what makes us so exceptional. Not our surname.”

“To me, you’ll always be demi gods,” Sasha states.

“Ah, yes. But that goes with your statement earlier. About seeing us as your pseudo-children. Thanks for that, by the way. You know nobody’s going to say it, but many of us regard you as family right back. Which has to do with how you devoted yourself not only to our lessons, but to our lives. You always took the grant to be familiar with us literally. You did your job as a teacher, but when lessons were done you chose to spend your free time with us. Which caused quite a mindfuck when you slipped into full formality on our 18th birthday.”

“Such was the nature of the agreement.”

“Indeed. I just can’t figure out why _Otac_ kept granting you permission to teach. He’s not blind nor stupid. He knows some of us like you more than we’re supposed to. I for one, consider you to be closer family than my uncles. Did you know that some of us theorised that you might be a брат who survived the purge?”

Sasha shakes his head. He’d never heard that. “No?”

Pete chuckles and shakes his head. “Well, some of us have discussed why _Otac_ ’s made an exception for you. It could be as simple as you making us learn more and better than most of our teachers. But that seemed too simple. So we had this theory that one of the Uncles had sown some wild oats in Russia. Could happen, right? You are the son of a whore, after all. The theory was busted by taking a DNA sample from you. We’re not related in any way. But for a long time, many of us believed this to be the reason.”

It makes Sasha uncomfortable knowing they’d taken a DNA sample from him without his knowledge. He isn’t surprised. But still. “You too?”

“Me too, yes.”

“Who else?”

Pete chuckles and wiggles his finger at him. “Nu-uh. That’s up to them to tell.”

“Fair enough.”

“Have you kept yourself up to date with my career?” Pete asks, changing topic. 

“No. I've been kept busy.”

“Then let me tell you about it. _Otac_ didn’t find me worthy of ruling a country or section. I asked for it, but he rejected me. Instead he dropped me here and gave me a small shipping company, charging me with managing a tiny part of our smuggling. That was ten years ago. Since then I have built and expanded until I had what I have today. I run 64 companies and the ultimate responsibility for most of our smuggling worldwide. But the greater part of my revenue is completely legal. Now you compare that to Solo and Babyface, who barely make a decision without asking Mikey’s opinion first. And they're fit to rule Russia and South America? I think not.”

“Would you want to trade?”

“No. I like it here. I want America.”

“Maybe that’s why _Otac_ rejected you. He isn’t ready to leave his rule yet.”

Pete laughs, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “You really think I asked for America at that age? Hardly. I had my aim at Central America. We didn’t have a resident head there. We still don’t. _But_...” Pete lets the sentence hang.

Sasha frowns thoughtfully, trying to remember who runs Central America. It wasn’t counted to Saul’s dominion, or he would have known after his two years in South America. _Otac_ didn’t oversee it personally, and the Uncles had retired one after another… He runs through in his head what projects he knows of personally there, what Croatoans he knew stationed in Central America, who they report to… they all reported to other Croatoans, who reported to other Croatoans. Sasha’s limited (vast compared to many other Croatoans, due to his rank and constant travelling) knowledge can’t tie any бог брат to any of the Central American projects. Nor had there been any reason to look into it, because those projects seemed to run themselves, working like clockwork. This brings another burst of fear, but this time paired with a fierce burst of pride in his chest. Little Pete had always pestered him about maps, asking him to describe what it was like in different countries. How was the weather, the roads, the people. What did he dislike the most about being stationed somewhere. Putting him on logistics was a logical move, with the interests he’d nurtured as a child. _Otac_ may very well have expected him to turn a small company to a worldwide enterprise. (Or he could have thought the reserved child Pete appeared to be, couldn’t handle more.) But there’s no way he’d expect Pete to steal what he wasn’t given, taking it right from under the noses of his brothers. He looks at Pete with both awe and pride. The fear comes from grasping the danger of what this means. The awe and pride is what he always felt when his students (or pseudo-sons, like Pete had, not wrongfully, called it) outdid themselves and overshot expectations. “But now we got a head for Central America.” he states.

Pete’s been studying him while Sasha connected dots and jumped to conclusions. Now he’s trying―and failing―to contain his own pride for his achievements. “I challenge you to prove who controls the _Porodica_ activity in Central America, Sash. Who holds the real power?”

Bragging rights. It’s so hard to keep secrets, because humans _want_ to share. They want to be admired. So if Pete had felt himself snubbed, and managed to take control of Central America without _Otac_ ’s permission, he couldn’t brag to anyone of his brothers, since they might make a fuss. But a Croatoan who had openly stood up to _Otac_ when Luci’s dog was going to be put down, declaring total loyalty to the божја браћа? That’s someone he could brag to.

“And while you’re at it, you may want to take a _very_ close look at who holds the _real_ power in Chile, Argentina, Uruguay, and the Falkland Islands. And surprisingly enough, Estonia and Latvia. I keep tabs. Figure it out, and come visit me again, because I’m very interested in what you think about it.” 

“With all due respect, the inter-politics of the Sin-Božji isn’t really my business. I just do my job,” Sasha lies. But his curiosity is piqued. The first set of countries are Saul’s dominion. The last two lie under Liam’s responsibility, but are governed by Daniel. Pete couldn’t possibly have snuck them from under his brothers’ noses, could he? Sasha thinks he would have known, since he oversees so many projects in those countries.

Pete sniggers. “Sure you do. Just do it, Sasha. Or not.” He shrugs and turns serious. “Either way, don’t be a stranger. The isolation is killing me. I had my reasons for nominating you for your new rank, and it’s not what you would think,” he repeats. Which, in the context, makes Sasha think loneliness definitely isn’t the reason.

* * *

Sasha lies awake for a long, long time that night, buzzing from mixed emotions ranging from outright fear to excitement. Pete’s stance towards _Otac_ and Sasha himself are too good to be true. He thinks Pete may actually be one of the most dangerous of the божја браћа, due to how ambitious he is, and how non-threatening he seems to his family. While Doug, Luci, and Mikey all have expressed treachery towards _Otac_ ’s rules―all for love, one way or another― _none_ of them have any interest in stirring the organisation of the _Porodica_ or harm their brothers unless they have to to survive or protect their loved one. If they’d be allowed to keep what they have they’d happily play along with things as they were. 

Pete however, he isn’t playing his game to keep a crumb of love. He’s playing for power, and possibly revenge. He’s not accepting the sacrifice _Otac_ demanded from them as children unless it comes with a worthy reward of his choosing. Just like Luci, Pete thinks of himself first and foremost as an individual―not a брат. He’s drawn lines in the sand and gotten pissed when pushed over them. He’s biting back. Sasha respects that. Before today, Sasha hadn’t grasped how ambitious Pete really is. Maybe none of them have. Part of him feels excited about what he’s found here. If he hadn’t had his own agenda, he’d be itching to serve. To slap on one of those uniforms and compete to add rank insignia. Young him would have hated it. But today the thought of covert conquest in a disciplined fashion is alluring.

Either Pete is the ideal ally or the most dangerous foe of the божја браћа he’s met with since he got made a General. Before today he’d just figured he needed to visit those божја браћа he wanted to have under his wings, to see which needed to be manipulated into choosing to ally themselves with the brothers of Sasha’s choice. Now he realises he needs to visit them all to see if something like this goes on elsewhere. Pete doesn’t use slurs for regular Joes nor Croatoans. He doesn’t talk of himself like he is better by birthright. His Croatoans that are in the guise of working for Heimdallr Security, they acted as military. Literally. Those were not the only Croatoans he’d seen here, but those were the ones Sasha’s interested in. Uniforms created unity that went beyond the superficial. It’s the opposite of how the Croatoan organisation is built to work, but it’s appealing to anyone who seeks order and a place to belong. To his eyes it seems like Pete is building a private army. If he is, he’d be interested in having them loyal to him, not all his brothers. Which means he’s not turning a blind eye to the increasingly real threat of a civil war - he’s preparing for it.

Unable to sleep Sasha hits the light and makes a phone call to the hacker he worked with along with Mikey back in twin towns, the one who had supported them during the haunted job. “Zuko? It’s Chaadayev. Did I wake you?”

“Sleep is for the weak and the dead, Cap,” Zuko answers. Sasha hasn’t spoken to Zuko for years. His lips tug into a little smile at the old moniker, because Zuko had called him ‘Cap’ from the getgo, long before the whole Captain America crap got started. “Long time since I heard from you. Zup?”

“I’ve got a job for you.”

“ _Duh_.”

“ _Eyy_. None of that attitude or you won’t get any cookies,” Sasha chuckles. “Before all else I want you to tell me how many Croatoans are currently stationed with Peter, permanently and temporarily.” If he wasn’t drunk and tired he could check this himself, but he’s in bed and doesn’t want to leave bed when he’d need a hacker later anyway. 

There’s the tapping sound of a keyboard from the other side. “45 stationed permanently. 20 more with temporary unspecified assignments.”

Sasha can hear right away that the numbers doesn’t add up with the headcount he’s seen here. “Temporary specified assignments?”

“None.”

Now that doesn’t have to mean anything. He himself is stationed with Doug currently, yet he travels. When he was stationed with Saul he spent about 40% of the time at the mansion, the rest of the time he went with Tyler on inspections or travelled all over South America, visiting locations and solving problems, mostly in the Southern Cone. When off duty or waiting for new assignments, many Croatoans were drawn to places with other Croatoans. But during his inspection here, he’d seen at least five uniformed men on every floor. This building has 30 floors below the penthouse. Which means more than double the number in the records. He could be using pawns for his security company too. Ordinary people hired in the mundane way. Or he could be using recruits, who hadn’t gotten their full carving yet. “Which божја браћаs have granted permission for the most new recruits of Croatoans the last 10 years?”

Some more keyboard tapping, then “Babyface, Peter, and Matthew. Liam isn’t far behind.”

“Which hacker does Peter use most frequently?”

“No one. No hacker is listed as having been assigned to him personally.” Again, it means nothing. In the old days, Sasha would get an assignment, then contact the computer geeks himself more often than not. The tech support was always a phone call away and generally there was no reason to register them as assigned to somebody. It’s just that the Bluetooth insignia he’d seen on at least one uniform made him think of computers.

“When you hack a server, can you leave messages? Even if you fail? To help them identify who you are.”

“Yup.”

“I want you to hack Heimdallr Security, the company in charge of the official security of Peter’s enterprises. If you succeed, I want their full employment records. It’s not a problem if you fail. This is an internal security drill.”

Zuko scoffs. “I don’t fail. Although it may take some time.”

“Fair enough. I want you to leave them a message only if you fail or if you suspect the breach will be detected. I want you to say ‘Protector of man, challenge accepted. Report to Mac Dhè’.” Sasha wants to make sure it is known to Pete why somebody is attacking his system. It’s a precaution. 

“Protector of man, challenge accepted. Report to Mac Dhè. Got it, Cap.”

“Good. Also, I need everything you can find on the Croatoan Richard Mitchell, ID 469WX19. His past, pre- _Porodica_ , where he’s been stationed during his time with us, which божја браћа he’s worked for, what missions he’s had, family, friends, lovelife, _everything_.”

“How soon do you want it?”

“As soon as possible without putting the urgent stamp on it. Just mail it to me when you’re done.”

“Will do.”

“Good. That’s all for now. Stay safe. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Cap.”

Sasha puts his phone away and cuts the light. Pete is dangerous. Sasha wants him to stay safe, but he needs to make sure he’s not a threat to his other boys. He thinks about Pete’s main complaints tonight. Loneliness and being overlooked. Sasha forms a plan about how to remedy that, because that may be the crucial point when it comes to who Pete would ally with. Once he’s got a plan of how to approach the problem his brain finally decides it’s ready to sleep.

* * *


	21. Hunted Immortal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha runs into some trouble. Mikey is a good reason to weather it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our boys are not politically correct. Okay?
> 
> **THERE ARE MILDLY NSFW GIFS IN THIS CHAPTER**  
>  Just thought you should know....

* * *

Power. 

Power is awesome and he loves having it.

But being a leader _sucks_.

He rubs his temples trying (and failing) to stave off an oncoming headache. He directs some very resentful thoughts towards the божја браћа for putting this on his shoulders. He wonders why he’s bothering addressing this _at all_. They’re Croatoans for fuck sake. They should solve it as such. A knife in the back in a dark alley. Poison in a cup of coffee. A car bomb. A fucking fistfight. Anything that will keep this bullshit __**off his table!**

Of course, that’s the very reason he’s addressing it. If this bullshit escalates it may mean losing one or two very good assets. Cahto the Bear, explosives expert (Native American from Cali), and Pol Ruiz, a very creative engineer (from Spain). Now, Cahto the Bear isn’t his real name, but Sasha can’t remember what it was. He’s even listed as Cahto the Bear in the registry. The Bear came from the paw on his tribe’s flag and Cahto is the tribe’s name. He usually goes by Kato. Sasha and he had taught at the Heart together. He’d worked with Pol once too, on a mission. The guy is a fucking MacGyver. Both competent men. Now they make Sasha feel like a fucking principle in middle school.

The two of them are standing in front of the desk in the office Pete has given for him to use during his visit. They are here for temporary assignments and don’t fall into Pete’s group of uniformed Croatoans. They keep spitting vehement insults at each other. Apparently, they’d been working together just fine before this weekend, then Pol had gone to a costume party and now Sasha has to use his precious time to play daddy daycare with two seasoned killers. He could be back by Mikey’s side right now. Fuck, but he misses Mikey.

One thing he likes about the Sin-Božji is how non-prejudiced they’ve built their organisation. He likes that the Sin-Božji doesn’t see colour, culture, religion, or sexuality - but individuals and talents. Sadly, these views aren’t shared by all Croatoans. Most are smart enough to keep their mouth shut in the presence of a бог брат (or they would pay dearly for it), but that doesn’t mean they don’t have prejudiced opinions. It just means that they don’t voice their opinions on blacks, gays, or whatever, where it could be construed as criticism of any of the Sin-Božji. Sasha however, isn’t spared the bullshit.

“If you whites wouldn’t―“

Sasha cuts Kato off mid-sentence. “ENOUGH! The fact that you’re calling a Spaniard white proves you’ve got no grasp of what counts as white outside of America. You think your people are the only ones who’ve faced genocide? You think skin colour dictates who oppresses who? I suggest you put your nose into history books then. Africa wasn’t a place of peace and harmony before white people came along. Still isn’t. Europeans have oppressed Europeans. Indians have warred with other Indian tribes. It’s got nothing to do with fucking culture. It’s about fucking individuals. You think your people are the only ones to declare things found in nature sacred?”

“He knows nothing about the culture behind the garment. He offended my people,” Kato says with a face twisted by self-righteous contempt. Pol had been dressed as an Indian chief to the costume party. Suddenly Kato had gone off like a fucking social justice warrior, speaking of cultural appropriation and fuck knows what. 

“He wore a feathery hat. In India, they consider cows being holy and I’ve seen you gobble hamburgers with the best of them without a moment’s consideration for culture. We are not obliged to bow to other people’s beliefs and customs any more than your people were _obliged_ to suddenly become Christians when you were invaded. This is a moronic discussion. We are Croatoans. Your profession alone says this shouldn’t be an issue as we aren’t supposed to give a shit about people outside the _Porodica_. He did not mock you personally, nor any of your close kin. He just wore a fucking costume and went to a party. _Deal_ with it! Now, get the fuck out of my office. Both of you. _Dismissed_.”

They both leave, Kato throwing a hateful glare over his shoulder before he’s out of the room.

* * *

In hindsight, he should have handled the matter with much more diplomacy and care. He shouldn’t have let being tired, fed up, distracted by Pete’s revelations, and suffering from homesickness get to him. His poor leadership in this instance cost him an additional three days away from home and the loss of not two, but _twelve_ skilled Croatoans. No. Fucking _croats_. And for good or bad, it boosted his reputation as immortal.

* * *

**Four days later…**

Michael stands in front of the mirror, looking tired and dejected. It’s such a relief to see him after the time apart. His white button-down shirt is rumpled like he’s slept in it, his eyes puffy with dark circles underneath, like he hasn’t slept at all. His pipe is lit, smoking softly on an ashtray nearby. “I’m sorry. I failed. I couldn’t keep myself from the drugs,” Mikey says when he meets Sasha’s eyes through the mirror. Apart from that, he shows no surprise at having Sasha show up unannounced at his home after several days of radio silence. It’s been a bit surprising to be honest, how Mikey would be so unfazed by him just appearing inside his home.

“Did you try?”

“Yes.”

“Then you didn’t fail.”

Mikey smiles without humour and bends his head, closing his eyes. “You don’t get gold stars for trying, Lex.”

“According to the internet, you do,” Sasha says, kicking his shoes off and shrugging out of his jacket.

Michael lets out a surprised laughter and meets his gaze through the mirror. “Oh, if the _internet_ says so, I guess it can’t be wrong.”

Sasha smirks at him and gives him a wink, then frees himself from holster, shirt, bulletproof vest, and tee, until he’s left in jeans only.

“Bulletproof vest, Lex?”

“I’ve been feeling the heat.”

“Bluebloods after you?”

Sasha shakes his head. “Croats. I think I got them all, but you know how it is. Chop one head off and another one spouts like weed.”

Mikey frowns. “I don’t like the sound of that. Why?”

“I stepped on some sore toes.”

“Rogues?”

“Not really. Just assholes disagreeing with my leadership, taking offence at something I said. Can we not talk about it right now?”

“Mh. We’ll talk about it later, though.”

Sasha walks up to Mikey and winds his arms around him from behind, looking at him in the mirror. It’s good to be home. “You look like shit, Mikey, and yet you may be the most beautiful sight I’ve seen in weeks.”

Mikey leans his head back to rest against Sasha’s shoulder with a deep sigh that sounds both relieved and tired. “I’m not sure if I should be insulted or feel flattered.”

Sasha places a kiss on Mikey’s cheekbone, without taking his eyes off of their reflection in the mirror. “Even looking like shit you’re more attractive than most of the Earth’s population. And I thought that long before my feelings got the better of me. You grew up a very handsome man, Michael.” 

Michael smiles lazily in response. “Mmh. That’s more like it.” 

Sasha reaches out for the pipe and holds it up to Mikey’s mouth for him to take a hit. “I’ve longed for you, baby boy. Did you cut yourself?”

Mikey inhales from the pipe. Sasha’s tempted to take a hit too, but he doesn’t. He puts the pipe back. “Only once,” Mikey answers with a hint of shame in his voice.

“Only once?” Sasha puts his mouth to Mikey’s ear and lowers his voice. “I’m so proud of you, pretty boy. So very proud.” He can see goosebumps from on Mikey’s neck and throat. 

“How can you be proud when I failed?”

“The mission was not to abstain, it was to take as good care of yourself as you could. I can’t dictate how you feel, or how much you can take. You’re the only one who knows how it feels to be you,” Sasha says and nuzzles Mikey’s hair, inhales deeply, feeling something inside laying to rest in contentment. Thoughts of politics and schemes dissipate like water vapours in heat.

Mikey’s lips curve in a lazy smile, but he doesn’t answer. He rests his hands on Sasha’s wrists where they’re wound around his stomach.

“Where’s Skittles?” Sasha asks.

“On the balcony. He doesn’t like it when I taste the rainbow,” Mikey jokes and chuckles at his own joke. His sense of humour is lowered by the cannabis. “I put up a net so he can’t fall. He likes sitting there, looking out over the world.”

“You don’t?”

“I get impulses… they’re hard to resist.”

“What kind of impulses?”

Mikey closes his eyes. “Oh, you know. The usual. To drop objects on people walking below. Or to dive to the pavement head first.” He says it in a lofty, humorous tone, like it’s a joke. It isn’t, and Sasha knows it.

“What stops you?”

Mikey’s voice is drifting. His whole body is relaxed and heavy as he leans towards Sasha. “You. Mal. Luci… And lately, Skittles and the fishes.” Michael’s hand closes around Sasha’s wrist, thumb pressing against the pulse point, feeling how his words make Sasha’s pulse race. “But that was your plan all along, wasn’t it? The favour you asked of me wasn’t really to take care of your cat, but to stay alive. You’re asking me to live for you in those moments when I can’t live for myself.”

_Mal?_

Maalik had been the only big brother who hadn’t accepted Michael taking on responsibility for everything. Mikey had acted as the big brother for all his siblings from a very young age, even when he deferred to his older brothers for their age. He supported them, helped solve problems, and kept the peace. But Mal hadn’t let Mikey pull that crap on him. He’d been to Mikey, what Mikey tried so hard to be to everyone else. 

“You’re a smart boy.”

Mikey’s smile fades and he swallows dryly. He keeps his eyes closed. “They tell me… they tell me to argue about that. That I’m a man, not a boy. They say I should put the croat back in his place.”

Sasha’s head is full of questions about who ‘they’ are. He’s almost asking if Mikey’s told anyone about the two of them, but he remembers hearing Mikey argue with an empty bathroom and suspects that ‘they’ are all in Mikey’s head. He’s not sure if it’s the drugs that make Mikey’s tongue loose, or if it’s trust. He decides not to interrogate Mikey about it now. He just wants to enjoy finally being together again.

“So why don’t you?”

“Because it feels so good to be your little boy. To just let go.”

Sasha smirks. “That’s right. Just drop the load off your shoulders and let me take care of you.” He drags his lips against Mikey’s clean-shaven cheek, feeling it stretch into a grin under his lips.

“It feels odd,” Mikey says. “I don’t think you’ve ever been so scruffy with me before.”

“I haven’t been able to shave for three days. You want me to go shave right now?” That is one of Sasha’s remaining hangups when it came to being with men. Beards. Scruff. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like how it feels against his skin. He isn’t too fond of his own scruff either, but he’s been on a three-day cat-and-mouse game with his life as the prize, and that doesn’t leave much time for vanity.

“No,” Mikey says, opens his eyes and looks at them in the mirror. “I like it. I want you to keep it for a couple of days. Then I can shave it off for you.”

“Fair enough.”

They’re quiet for a while, just looking at each other in the mirror. Sasha’s revelling in the feeling of having Mikey in his arms, how his warmth bleeds through the thin shirt to Sasha’s naked chest. He knows he reeks of sweat. He can smell himself. Three days without a shower, fresh off an urban battlefield―Mikey should be disgusted. But Mikey keeps taking deep breaths through his nose, smiling faintly, like he loves it. He probably does. Sasha, at least, feels that way about Michael’s scent. Sasha may be tired, dirty, and achey, but standing like this makes his body react. He feels his dick starting to get hard. Mikey feels it too, and grinds his ass back against Sasha’s crotch with a lazy smirk.

Sasha reaches out for the pipe and holds it up for Mikey to take another hit. Mikey holds his breath while he puts it back in the ashtray. He coughs once when he lets the smoke out, making Sasha chuckle. “Amateur.”

“You’re one to talk,” Mikey comments, eyelids heavy, eyes red, and _oh_ so pretty.

“Mh. Look at us in the mirror. I’m gonna fuck you like this,” Sasha says, grabbing Mikey’s hips and rolling his own hips slowly against his ass. Mikey’s still leaning the back of his head against his shoulder, exposing the length of his throat. He watches them, as asked. “I’ll fuck you so hard you’re gonna have to put your hands on the wall on both sides of the mirror and push back, unless you want to bang your head into it,” Sasha continues, letting go of Mikey’s hips and stroking his stomach and chest. He sucks in an earlobe in his mouth, nibbles lightly, then lets go. “I’m gonna come so hard and deep inside of you, baby, that I’ll confuse mother nature and knock you up with my child.”

Surprisingly, Mikey’s pants start to tent and his breath is getting rougher. “You gonna be my baby daddy?” he asks, a smirk playing on his lips.

Sasha starts buttoning Mikey’s shirt down. He leaves the last button untouched and pulls the sides of the shirt apart to expose Mikey’s hairless, well muscled chest. He’s put on more weight. That eating on the clock thing he’s doing is working. Sasha can’t wrap his head around that there had been a time when a sight like this didn’t turn him on. True, he still has a fuckton more hangups―both mental and physical―when it came to having sex with a man, than he does with a woman. But what had been ignited by Cas, slowly burning hotter with Mikey and Flower, is by now an established appeal to the degree that he no longer needs the extra incentive of touch to get aroused by men, even strangers. Michael, though, is fucking exceptional now that he’d lost that emaciated look. “Yeah. I’m gonna be your baby daddy,” he breathes into Michael’s ear. 

 

It’s stupid, since he can’t impregnate Mikey even if he tries, yet it makes both of their dicks harder. He sees it on Mikey at the same time as he feels his own dick twitch. Being called ‘baby daddy’ is a turn on, like just ‘daddy’ isn’t, as it shifts the focus and meaning of the word, channelling that quenched down, impossible longing to be a father. “I could light fires with what I feel for you,” he whispers to Mikey, lips brushing the shell of his ear. Michael shivers in response.

Mikey swallows thickly. His Adam’s apple bobs, and Sasha tracks the motion with his eyes. “You’re gonna fuck me right now?” Mikey asks with a slight tremor in his voice. Like he’d give it a try. Now.

_God knows, I want to!_

“No, baby boy. Now we’re going to make love like we normally do.” Sasha can feel Mikey relax further. He hadn’t even realised Mikey was tense, with how lax his body already had felt. “But you want me to, Carver. You want me to drape myself over your back and mouth at your spine. You want me inside of you, closer. Impossibly close. Picture it…” He strokes his hand over Mikey’s chest and lowers his other hand to unbutton Mikey’s pants. Mikey arches his back and twists his head to kiss. Sasha’s heart makes a double beat when their lips meet, slipping his tongue inside to taste. 

It’s an awkward angle to be kissing in but _fuck_ , it feels good. To have someone to come home to, who knows most of your secrets. Who knows what a fucked up, dangerous piece of shit you really are, and can match you stride for stride. He longs for the time when he can drag Mikey into his mutiny, when he’s pushed him so far off course that _Otac_ , Addi, and the others no longer hold any sway over his boy. It takes a single look at Mikey for him to hate the organization he’s part of. The boy was a natural born healer and the _Porodica_ had destroyed that. It’d be a fine revenge to restore Mikey to what he could have become. 

He undoes Mikey’s pants. They fall to the floor and Mikey steps out of them. “Picture how good it would feel to have me inside of you, baby boy,” he coos, kissing Mikey’s neck. One hand wanders down to massage Mikey’s erection through the fabric of his underwear, the other’s lifted to caress Mikey’s jawline and lips. Mikey exhales softly and sucks two fingers into his mouth, putting his own hand over Sasha’s to keep it in his mouth. His eyes are closed and Sasha watches him in the mirror―watches how he just surrenders all control and lets himself be touched and dominated. One of the world’s most powerful men, and most threatened to boot, trusts him so fiercely that he melts to his touch. The thought blossoms warm in Sasha’s chest. “I love you, baby boy,” he husks into Mikey’s ear. He feels ridiculous, saying it, but it’s worth the whimper and how Mikey pushes himself closer, like he could merge with Sasha if he just could get close enough.

“Let’s go into the bedroom,” Sasha says and spins Mikey around to face him. Mikey kisses him, warm lips and wet tongue a balm for a haunted soul. Michael’s hands go down to unbuckle his belt and open his jeans as Sasha walks them backwards. They stop so he can step out of his jeans, then continue into the bedroom, kissing all the way. Sasha gently lays Mikey down on the bed and crawls on top of him. He grinds them together, stroking Mikey’s dark curls. “Or maybe this is how I’ll fuck you, baby boy. Slowly, pushing myself into you as deep as I can go. I’d draw it out. Not chasing my own orgasm. Just fuck you good and slow. Imagine it, baby boy. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He ruts against Mikey slowly, their legs sticking out over the bedside. 

Mikey’s eyes flutter shut. He moans softly.

“Are you imagining it, baby?”

“Yes, Vati,” Mikey answers breathily, hands caressing Sasha’s muscled back.

“ _Good boy_.”

Michael moans softly again, searches for his mouth and suckles his lower lip when he finds it. They’re building up sweat even with this sedate grinding. Skin burning hot against slick skin. There are no knives, no violence, no danger in this. Just intimacy and closeness. However they try to regulate it, power will always be a factor between them. Right now, Sasha’s the one in power. Knowing how much power he has while controlling Michael, is a physical pleasure all in itself. He drags his lips along Mikey’s jaw, down along his throat, tongue darting out to taste the salty skin, breathing in Mikey’s weed-mixed scent.

“Naked…” Mikey mumbles in a one-worded request, tipping his head back to show off the column of his throat. Sasha bites lightly at it before he kisses his way downwards. He pinches one of Mikey’s nipples with one hand and teases the other with his tongue. Mikey rolls his hips against his belly, erection digging in. “Lex, sweetheart, that feels so good. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, pretty boy.” He kisses his way down, hooks his fingers in the hem of Mikey’s underwear and pulls them off. He sits up long enough to get himself out of his own boxers. His eyes fall upon the new scar on Michael’s thigh. It must be one, or two days old, tops. He lies down between Michael’s legs and kisses it, drags his tongue over it, revelling in its metallic taste, soothing it.

“Come up here and kiss me,” Mikey commands, but his voice lilts upward, making it a plea.

Sasha moves to oblige, but gets sidetracked by Michael’s cock. All red and hard, leaking embarrassing amounts of precome onto his stomach. “Look at you, baby boy. All wet, like a girl. ‘Ts a fucking treat.” He licks a stripe along the shaft and sucks the tip into his mouth, suckling at the leaking slit. Precome tastes good. Not much, and a little salt. It reminds a lot about the slick of a nice pussy. If someone had told him back in the days, that he’d come to enjoy the taste, he would have beat the living shit out of them. Mikey whimpers and Sasha pops off. He licks up the precome on the stomach and crawls the rest of the way up to claim Mikey’s mouth, share the taste with him.

Mikey pushes him down beside him to lay on his side, turning with him. His hand goes down to grab Sasha’s dick, squeezing it, making it jerk. Sasha swears quietly in Russian, licks his own hand and mimics Mikey, grabbing him in a slick grip. They’re lying so close, it’s an awkward fit to both hold each others cocks and jerk each other off at the same time. Yet Sasha gets and arm under Mikey and pulls him even closer. Michael’s arm pillows his head. They kiss, and Mikey breaks the kiss ever so often just to rub his lips or cheek against Sasha’s beard. Sasha doesn’t like it. It makes his beard itch even more. But Mikey’s breaths are hot and wet against his skin, causing goosebumps and shivers. He can deal.

“ _Vati_...” Mikey whines, eyes closed, skin hot and flushed, hand slip-sliding faster up and down Sasha’s dick. It’s increasingly hard to get oxygen, sharing short breaths flavoured with urgent want. The tingles start to tickle, sparks dancing under Sasha’s heated skin, balls contracting to warn him he’s getting close. 

“That’s it, my pretty little boy. That’s it,” Sasha encourages with a breathy rumble, lightheaded, rolling his hips, fucking into Mikey’s strokes.

Mikey switches his grip to hold both of them in his hand, jerking them off faster, cock rubbing against cock, grip sticky-wet-slippery from sweat and precome. Sasha covers his hand with his own.

Mikey’s climax takes them both by surprise, spilling against both their bellies with a whimpering sound, twitching with every wet stroke. Sasha gasps, following, falling over the edge moments after.

Afterwards, they lie blissed out, legs tangled, forehead to forehead, resting on each others’ arms. Sasha’s free hand is rested on Mikey’s hip, and Mikey trails his hand up and down Sasha’s shoulder and back. Sasha has his eyes closed, content little smile playing on his lips.

His eyes fly open and he tries to jerk up to a sitting position when there’s a crash from the kitchen. But Mikey catches him and pulls him down again with a chuckle. “Relax, darling. It’s Skit.”

“Skit?”

“Our cat, silly,” Mikey answers with a smug smirk.

“You sure?” Sasha asks pensively. 

“Positive. He does this often. Ninjas his way into the cupboards. Giving the term ‘cat burglar’ a quite literal meaning. Why so skittish, sweetheart?”

Sasha relaxes and bends his neck to burrow his nose between Mikey’s pecs. “Oh, I'm so- _rree_. I guess caution is a dumb reflex after you’ve been chased by professional assassins for three days straight.”

“Yeah, what’s up with that?” Mikey asks and pulls him closer, hugging his shoulders and cradling the back of his head. The gesture is oddly touching and hits Sasha somewhere deep inside. Maybe it’s due to exhaustion, but it makes him feel small and vulnerable, in a good way. For a short moment he lets himself be swept up in a fantasy of an alternative life. Hunting the supernatural with Mitch while Mikey paints, return home to make love and relax with Mikey. Take Mikey, Doug, and Bendi on excursions and leisure trips. Bring the elusive Seb along since Bendi goes on and on and _on_ about him. Perhaps take Pete along too, to keep him from being miserable. Visit Luci, Sam and Cas. Sit cuddled up with Mikey in front of a campfire, kissing him openly in front of his brothers while they chat along, making s’mores or chocolate/banana packs over the open fire, not giving a shit about Mikey’s choice of boyfriend. It’s an impossible fantasy, where the _Porodica_ isn’t their concern, and _Otac_ doesn’t exist. But he enjoys the fleeting idea anyway, without getting saddened by the impossibility of it. He has Mikey either way.

“I pissed off a native American working for us. You remember Kato?” Sasha asks and bends his head back to look at Mikey.

“No. Should I?”

“He taught explosives at the Heart.”

Mikey squints in thought. “Not really, no. Don’t remember all Croatoans we had coming and going, at home. And I’m not very interested in explosives. That was more Luci’s department.”

Sasha gets sidetracked. “You remember if one of the security guys had a crush on me in 98?”

Mikey grins impishly. “ _Do_ I? Are you kidding me? Harvey Byrne’s legendary crush was a huge entertainment to us. Like having a reality show romcom unfolding. But without the happy ending.”

“I had no idea he liked me.”

Mikey snorts in amusement and tugs lightly at Sasha’s hair. “Yeah. We got that. One thing you couldn’t be accused of back then, was having a gaydar. You friend-zoned him so hard it hurt to just watch. Utterly oblivious.”

“In hindsight, it’s almost embarrassing not having noticed,” Sasha says ruefully.

“ _Almost??_ ” Mikey laughs. “Darling, I was mortified on your behalf. He was about as subtle as a three-day airstrike of continuous bombing, and you thought he was making jokes or just being friendly. Why do you think it stirred up such a fuss when we caught you chatting up Marco Garcia thirteen years later?”

“Ey. I’d met a lot of guys acting like him over the years. I figured they just had a certain brand of humour.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have admitted that, considering how Mikey totally loses it laughing.

_Fair enough._

It’s worth the ribbing to see Mikey relaxed and happy.

“ _Phew,_ ” Mikey says when he’s finally stopped laughing. “Fuck me, but that’s funny. Almost distracted me from what we were talking about. What was it about Kato?”

“I pissed him off and inadvertently caused a repeat of one of America’s greatest sins, but within the _Porodica_.” Sasha isn’t keen to talk about it. He’d made a mistake that he could have avoided with a little bit of diplomacy. His pride has taken a dent due to his own stupidity.

“Which is…?” Mikey probes.

“Ethnical cleansing. Twelve of the nineteen natives we had working for us are now dead.”

Mikey sniggers. “ _America’s greatest sins_? There you go, being an idealistic dweeb again. Sometimes I don’t get you _at all_. Seriously. Why are you even working for us? You’re part of facilitating the world’s biggest slave trade. Hell, we do it all, and you get weepy about a few dead indians.”

Sasha scoffs in offence. “ _Oy_! I don’t get weepy. I just don’t like systematic eradication of cultures. Knowledge gets lost that way. No matter how primitive a culture is, they may know stuff that might benefit me. If you kill off all the people, you’ll be doing guesswork in ruins next.”

“You’re going to make me drag this out of you, aren’t you? Just tell me what happened before I have to mantle my бог брат status and order you to report,” Mikey says, still amused.

Sasha rolls his eyes. By threatening to evoke his rank as a superior, he’s evoking his rank whether he means to or not. But fair enough. “Okay. So one Croatoan had gone to a costume party dressed as an Indian chief. That’s all. But Kato went off like some hysteric bitch, howling about how it was an offense against his culture, and that our guy had no right and whateverfuck. So I told him to suck it up since this ain’t fucking kindergarten. He took it as an even greater offense, since I’m their superior, and he decided to pull a fucking Indians-unite to do away with me because of it. Hence, they’ve been chasing me these last days. But I think I got them all.”

Michael’s expression has turned serious and now ice is burning hot in his eyes. He sits up and looks down at Sasha. “Hold on, I thought you said they weren’t rogues?”

Sasha makes a sturgeon face and half shrugs. “It’s just normal Croatoan internal politics. I got help from the remaining Indians, tipping me off. Ain’t no big deal.”

“Like hell it is! We’ve selected those on the A-list to hold key positions worldwide. A try for your life might jeopardize several current projects and set us back. We’ve allowed you to hold reins we ourselves would hold otherwise. Trying to assassinate you is to be considered a treasonous act!”

Those words are sweet poison to Sasha’s ears. The poison he gets high off nowadays. Power. “Yeah, well, baby boy. You ain’t exactly made that clear. I’ve had several attacks on my life by other croats since my promotion. Many think that if they kill me, you’ll see them as superior and promote them instead.”

Michael growls. “Then they’re idiots!”

“Ain’t arguing that.”

“You sure you got everyone who rebelled?”

“Mostly. Like I said, some of our Indians helped, playing double agents for me. My partner, Mitch, helped too. And a couple of others. I took out Kato last. Got a little creative. Put on a show and filmed it, to help scare people off. I need your permission to post it. But I’m not sure I should. Maybe it’ll get me in more trouble. I’m so fucking tired. I might not be thinkin’ clearly, you get what I’m sayin’?”

“Show it to me.” Michael’s voice is commanding. Eyes hard. Gone is the loving boyfriend, replaced by the commander.

“Yes, бог брат.” Sasha goes to set up a chromecast from a laptop to the TV in the living room.

* * *

_The hotel room is clean and neat, albeit worn down. Sasha sits in a wooden armchair facing the door. His hair is messy and his face unshaven, his clothes―jeans, bulletproof vest, and tee―are dirty, yet he looks calm, bored, keeping his hands on the armrests._

_The door opens slowly, then Kato quickly steps inside, swiftly pointing the gun to every corner of the room in search of an ambush. Finding none he points the gun at Sasha with one hand as he closes the door behind himself. He’s not wearing gloves. Why bother, when he’s planning to coin the scene?_

* * *

“Are you mad? He could have shot you in the head the moment he entered,” Mikey spits and glares at Sasha incredulously, hitting the pause button.

“Mhm,” Sasha agrees. “It was a gamble.” He makes a sturgeon face and shrugs a shoulder. “But Kato likes to gloat. I figured, he thinks he has the upper hand, he’d take a couple of minutes to rub it in my face, you get what I’m saying?”

“I do, but I don't like that you're reckless like that.”

Sasha scoffs. “You're the one to talk. Honestly, though, I was exhausted. If they'd kept chasing me, they'd get me. This wasn't as much recklessness as it was my last resort. Whatever they say about me, I'm not invincible.”

Michael doesn't look pleased with the answer, but hits play again.

* * *

_Kato sneers at Sasha. “Well well. You look like shit. Not so cocky anymore.”_

_“What do you want, croat?”_

_“Croat? Do you really think you're better than me?” Kato laughs with a disgusted expression. “That's hilarious. Buying your own myth these days, Immortal? You think that A-list bullshit will protect you? Think again. I'm about to show the world that you can die just like the rest of us. You don’t get to get away with disrespecting my people like you did. Any last words before I shoot you?”_

_“I have.” Sasha glances at his watch. “The браћа are the gods I pledged my life to worship. We all did. It's on our skin.” Sasha pats his upper arm to underline his meaning. “They're gods amongst mortals, powerful enough to do anything. They've bestowed a tiny fraction of that power on me. You know what that means?”_

_“It means you have developed an inflated view of yourself, and will die because of it,” Kato sneers._

_“No. It means_ you _die,” Sasha counters and snaps his fingers._

_Kato promptly glances around, expecting to be ambushed, trying not to look away from Sasha in case he lunges or pulls a hidden gun. Sasha remains sitting, superior smirk spreading on his face. “Y’ thnk ts fubny?” Kato slurs. His eyes widen when he hears his own words come out garbled. He raises his arm to shoot but the gun falls out of his hand as his fingers won't obey. He stares at the gun in shock, then back at Sasha, fear evident in his expression. “Whu ud y’ do?” He asks urgently, voice garbled by a tongue that no longer adheres to the brain's orders._

_Sasha only smirks in response._

_Kato lurches to the side, then collapses as his body rebels his command. He lies on the floor, eyes bulging, spasming, turning blue in the face. He loses control of his bladder and shits himself, then, finally, he stills. Dead._

_Sasha gets up from the armchair and walks over to the hidden camera, facing it head-on. “I hope you watched carefully, because that’s what’s in store for you if you decide to challenge me or the masters I serve,” he says, then he lifts his hand and snaps his fingers. The video cuts out._

“How?” Mikey asks with a stumped frown.

“Using the magic powers bestowed upon me by the браћа,” Sasha jokes.

“Lexi!” Mikey prompts angrily.

“Eyy! Don’t disappoint me by asking foolish questions. You know the answer. The answer is _right there_ ,” Sasha snipes irritably and points at the big screen TV.

“Poison.”

“Yes.”

“Phantom?”

“There’s a good student,” Sasha mock-praises.

“Don’t take that tone with me. I have rarely used poison of that calibre, even counting the lessons you gave. So _how_? I didn’t see the injection dart.”

Sasha lights a cigarette and raises an eyebrow dryly. 

“So no dart. It works instantly when injected… you wanted him to keep talking for a while because you needed a couple of minutes for the poison to be properly absorbed by the body. ...Door handles?” 

Sasha snaps his fingers with a pleased curve to his lips, blowing out smoke sharply upward. “Bingo. Kato had an aversion to wearing gloves. I knew this from our time at the Heart. He’d coin a scene to cover it up, rather than make sure he left no fingerprints. I know it’s fucking risky to handle the Phantom concentrated enough to be lethal by only skin contact. But fuck, Mikey, I was exhausted. Kato and his men had been nipping at my heels every step of the way. I had three fucking cars explode on me. Would have gotten me too, if it wasn’t for the Indians that stayed loyal, acting as insiders, tipping me off. But I figured,” Sasha makes a sturgeon face, bending his head down to the side, half shrugging and gesturing with his cigarette hand in a circling motion, “he went for me using his branch of talents, I kill him using mine, you get what I’m sayin’?” 

“Three cars,” Mikey states darkly. Sasha isn’t a 100% sure the anger in his expression is directed at Kato, or at Sasha himself for using the most dangerous poison in his arsenal. One spilled drop could have ended Sasha, or at least caused severe damage to the brain and other organs. The few times he’s worked with it, he used a dilution, spiking food, drink, or injecting with a dart or syringe. Once the drug’s in your blood you’re fucked, one way or another, depending on the dosage.

Sasha grunts and takes a hit on his cigarette. “First one was my own car. Walked out to where it was parked on the street outside бог брат Peter’s building. Had my hand on the door handle when my phone rang. Took the call. The first thing Banney tells me is ‘There’s a bomb in your car, get the hell away from it. _Now_ ’. So I did. 30 seconds later it went boom. Then it was game on and I was the hunted one.”

“So why didn’t you go back to Pete and report it?”

“It was a personal vendetta against me. I ain’t gonna lead any danger anywhere near you.”

Mikey closes his eyes and rubs his temples as if Sasha is giving him a headache by sheer stupidity. “Lexi. Sweetheart,” he says in a tone that makes it an insult, “you’ve got to stop thinking about yourself like one of the men. _You_ said the quarrel had been brought to you _because_ of your rank. Correct?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“ _You_ told Kato to suck it up.”

“Yeeah…?” Sasha sucks a breath on his cigarette and watches Mikey with keen interest.

“Meaning, he disobeyed a direct order from his superior. And if he planted a car bomb straight in front of Pete’s building without inf―” Mikey’s jaw snap shut. He holds up a finger to signal for Sasha to wait, then brings up his phone and hits speed dial. Sasha waits obediently, puzzled. “Hey, Pete. Were you informed that a car bomb was going to explode in fro― Uh-uh?... Mhm. Yes… No. It was targeting Chaadayev… No. A croat. An explosives expert named Kato. ...Oh, he’s dead already. Yes. ...Apparently he wasn’t happy with a ruling Chaadayev gave in a dispute between him and another Croatoan. ...Uh-huh. _Because_ , this is daily bread for him. There are stupid croats out there, thinking they can win an A by snuffing the existing ones. ...Good. Then we’re on the same page about it. ...Yes. Chaadayev has it on tape. Hold on.” Mikey snaps his fingers demandingly in Sasha’s direction. “Email the video to Pete,” he orders.

Sasha pinches the cig between his lips and copies the file from its USB stick to the laptop, then e-mails it as ordered. “Sent it.”

Michael nods briefly in acknowledgement to Sasha but keeps his focus on the phone call. “He’s sent it now. ...No. His instinctual reaction was to lead the danger away from you.” He frowns in displeasure at whatever Pete says. “Yes, but… Alright. Good point, but I don't like it. He should at least call. It's important that all croats respect our orders, even when those orders are to obey someone else.” Whatever Pete answers to that soothes Michael's ruffled feathers. Then there's a lull in the conversation. Mikey looks at the TV, keeping quiet. Sasha guesses Pete's watching the clip now. He throws a glance at Sasha and gives him a short wink and a reassuring smile that makes Sasha’s heart skip. It is what it is. Sasha rubs his pendant between thumb and forefinger, stroking his ring with the thumb. Mikey starts talking again. “Uh-huh. ...I know. He’s got a flair for drama,” he says with a grin. “So here’s what I’m thinking…” He outlines a plan and talks for a few more minutes.

Once he’s hung up he turns to Sasha. “You heard all that, right?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Good. Then let's record the intro and outro to your video clip and mail it for distribution. Set it up while I go change.”

* * *

“I’m Бог брат Michael. I’m directing this message to every single Croatoan. A Croatoan conflict was recently brought to my attention. A native American croat, Kato, took offense to a non native Croatoan dressing as an indian chief at a costume party. The dispute that ensued was brought in front of one of our A-listers and Kato was told to suck it up. Instead of obeying this direct order to drop the dispute, Kato went rogue. He instigated a mutiny amongst other croats and made a try for the aforementioned A-lister’s life. This is not acceptable.” Michael pauses, face serious to create the gap Sasha’s video will be edited into. He’s fixed his hair, dripped his eyes with Rohto to get rid of the redness from the weed, and donned a slick looking tailored suit. He looks every inch a Бог брат. He continues after a beat, where the outro will start. “As you heard, Kato referred to Native Americans as his people. Let me make this crystal clear to you. When you join the Croatoan ranks, _Croatoans_ are your people. The Catho tribe will be wiped off the map because of this betrayal, and my only regret is that Kato is no longer alive to see what happens when you put another affiliation before the _Porodica_.”

Sasha withholds a wince. He doesn’t like that at all. A culture getting extinct. On the other hand, having the браћа support _him_? That pleases him to his core. It might isolate him even more from his colleagues, but hopefully, it’ll get random assassination attempts to stop. With his current motivations―being rogue himself―that is the preferred choice.

“Now. I realise we haven’t defined what rules apply to the A-list status. We usually let you Croatoans deal with your internal conflicts as you will, as long as it doesn’t interfere with your job. The A-list is an exception to this since they’re always working in one capacity or another, doing very sensitive work for us. So henceforth any assassination attempt on an A-lister will be considered a treasonous act.” Michael pauses to let it sink in. “If you by any chance have a grievance with someone on the A-list, you find a Sin-božji and roll the dice.” Michael smirks dangerously at the camera, telling the viewer that complaining about an A-lister to a Бог брат would result in rolling snake eyes for sure. “We expect their orders to be adhered to. This goes for off duty as well as on active duty. I hope you all are smart enough to understand this. We don’t want to address this matter one more time. If we find that we have to, we’ll go about addressing it a little differently… a little less pleasantly. That’s all.” Michael snaps his fingers in mimicry of Sasha’s gesture on the clip of Kato’s death. Sasha stops recording.

* * *

Sasha wakes up with a jerk at the sharp pain in his big toe, heart hammering, diving for his gun on the nightstand. For once Mikey’s faster, stopping him. “No, no. It’s just Skit,” he calms and sits up to scoot up the cat that had attacked Sasha’s toes. Sasha turns the lamp on to find Mikey cradling the cat like a baby to his chest, neck bowed to smile softly at the critter, while Skittles boxes at his nose without using claws. “I know, Skit. You’re not used to everyone being asleep at this time of night, now are you? How dare we sleep when it’s your playtime. It’s scandalous, I know,” he coos at the cat, then looks at Sasha with a big grin. “If you excuse me, our cat needs some attention.”

Sasha rubs his eyes with one hand and makes a bemused go-ahead gesture with his hand, then watches Mikey roll out of the bed with the cat, grabbing a laser pointer from his nightstand.

_Our cat._

It’s never that easy.

Sasha lies in bed for a while, listening to Mikey play with the cat in the other room. Then he grabs his pack of cigarettes, lights a cigarette and gets out of bed and goes to stand in the doorway, leaning an arm against the frame, lured by the giggles and chuckles. Michael grins as he makes the cat chase the red dot, making it jump around on furniture or run in circles. He giggles and shuts the pointer off when Skit catches the dot, delights in the cat’s confusion when the dot isn’t there when it lifts its paws. Then he points the red dot nearby and starts over.

Sasha sighs with a soft feeling in his chest.

It’s never that easy. But it’s a start.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand.... so I'm slowly trudging along, working on updating VC, going through chapter by chapter with my betas while writing future chapters as well. I'll start updating as soon as I'm caught up and the grammar is less cringy in all chapters. :) Meanwhile, I had this lying in a folder, almost finished, and figured I might as well finish and post it. <3


	22. Homelife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mikey tries to be a responsible adult, talking things through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff. Basically. Because why not? ^^

* * *

A couple of days later Sasha has all but forgotten about being hunted. 

Naked, on his back, with an equally naked Mikey resting on his arm beside him, Sasha muses that this is life. He’s almost fifty and _now_ life’s begun. There’s a faint patter of rain on the window, and from the living room, they can hear the sound Skittles makes when he’s sitting on top of the aquarium, patting the glass trying to catch the fishes. He’s made himself a family. Its core is his rich and powerful boyfriend, their cat, and fishes. He’s an uncle to an adorable three-year-old, has an adoptive extended family in the божја браћа, and a great partner to work with. He’s come a long way from the constantly hungry son of a poor whore. He’s done well for himself. He’s happy.

"Do you want me to act jealous?" Michael asks out of the blue.

Sasha frowns. "No. Of course not."

Michael rolls onto his stomach and crosses his arms over Sasha's chest, leans his chin on his forearms and looks up at Sasha with bright, interested eyes. "Are you sure? Because I could do that. Just say the word and I'll make anyone who as much as dares to look at you, pay dearly for it. It's not much of a stretch, as I'm already doing it to anyone who dares to touch you without your permission."

"No. Either you're jealous, or you're not. That's not something that can be forced."

"I beg to differ, sweetheart. I'm not jealous. I see no reason to be. The people I love, I don't love them any less because I love you. And as far as I know, you love Castiel, and still fell in love with me, right?"

Sasha nods, a bit unsure where this is going.

"And you fucked Anna on a regular basis, but you didn't fall in love with her, right?"

Sasha nods his agreement.

"So the way I see it, sex with others can't threaten your feelings for me or vice versa. And sex is fucking _nice_. I can legit not _count_ how many people I've fucked in my life. But outside of my family, only three individuals have made my heart react. Out of those three, the only one I've had sex with, is you." Michael taps Sasha on the chest to underline his point. His features are relaxed, soft, and open. For once Mikey's not only in a state of active listening, but he has his guards down, talking openly. It makes what he's saying all the more interesting. "So why should I be bothered by where you stick your dick? I _want_ you to have everything nice and good in life. Bodily pleasure is part of that. In the end, when push comes to shove, you come to me, _not_ for sex, but for _me_."

Sasha blinks and purses his lips thoughtfully. "If that's how you think about it, why ask if you should act jealous?"

Michael's lips curve into a soft smile. “Because I’ve been thinking a lot since our talk after you hung up on me. Your way of thinking is sometimes utterly alien to me, you know? And something hit me. As hard-pressed as I am to believe it, it struck me that you may be insecure about my feelings. That you’d think you’re in risk of losing me to somebody else.” Mikey shakes his head. “To me, the very thought is ludicrous. But as you pointed out, I shouldn’t be arguing about whether you should be feeling something or not. You’re feeling it, and that’s what I should use as a starting point, right? So I thought about what _your_ jealousy makes me feel. Aside from annoyance, that is,” he adds with dry humour.

Sasha’s lips twitch in semi-amusement, but he’s a bit distracted by what Michael’s saying and wants him to go on. “And what do you feel?” he probes, slowly brushing his fingers up and down alongside the dip by Mikey’s spine.

Mikey gives him a lopsided smirk. “Valued. Treasured. Desired. And very, very, aroused. You, when you go into that state when you look ready to douse the world in gasoline and flick a match at it… it’s fucking _hot_. That’s what got me thinking that maybe, because I _don’t_ act that way, you think I don’t care?”

Instead of answering right away, Sasha counters with a question of his own. “So if you think that, why didn’t you just start to act jealous? Not that I necessarily want you to. But why ask if I want it first?” Sasha can see multiple reasons for it, but since Mikey’s reasoning is very unlike his own, he rather hear Mikey tell him.

“Because, sweetheart,” Mikey says and tilts his head to lay his cheek on his forearm. “From the start, and over and over since, you’ve stated the same thing as fundamentally important for us to work. And that’s not to treat you as property. I think you’d have trouble discerning one behaviour from the other, if I started the animalistic practice of running off competition, defending my spot as your, _mate_ , if you will. You might think it was the Master not allowing freedom for his slave.”

“Fair enough.”

“Yes. I think so. Plus, should I hurt anyone who you show interest in, I’d hurt you too by extension, wouldn’t I? And you’d get pissed. I don’t want that.”

Sasha feels his mouth stretch into a warm smile of its own volition. He strokes a lock of hair out of Mikey’s forehead.

“So, _are_ you insecure about my feelings? Is that why you get jealous?” Mikey asks.

Sasha draws breath to deny it, but halts himself to mull the question over. Michael has obviously given what he said a lot of thought. He owes him the same respect. 

He licks his lips and makes a sturgeon face, awkwardly shrugging a shoulder. “I suppose I am. A bit. I’m not… not insecure about your feelings, per se. No. But yeah, I’m afraid of being discarded again. You get what I’m sayin?”

Mikey shakes his head. “Not completely.”

“In twin towns, we were doing good. I was happy. You were planning how to spend the summer with me, and from one day to the next, _poof_ , you shipped me off. I didn’t see it coming. It hit me hard, Mikey. It hit me real hard.”

“It was for both our sakes. You’d be safe―“

Sasha interrupts Mikey by covering his mouth with his hand. “No. We’re talking about how I feel. I think your reasoning is bullshit and that it was bullshit back then too. That’s not the point. You asked a question and I’m trying to answer it.” Sasha removes his hand.

“Sorry. Go on.”

“I know you love me now, and I know you loved me back then. Still, you discarded me. Anytime we fight, anytime I get mad at you, that comes straight back to mind. You, loving me, holds no bearing as to if you’ll keep me by your side or not. So yeah. I guess I’m insecure. Not of your feelings, but of what you’ll choose to do with them? You get me now?”

Mikey nods, looking sad. He heaves himself up on straight arms above Sasha, looking down at him with a serious expression. “You know I’m a man of my word, right?”

“I know.”

“I promise you, I will never send you away again. Not without discussion and agreement on your part. But I will never again turn you away, against your will. I swear it to you.”

Sasha can’t help but to grin and run his hands up Michael’s back. “You realise that promise might put you in danger in the future?”

“Pfft. Danger is my middle name,” Mikey says mock-loftily.

Sasha reaches out and grabs Mikey’s knife, lying on the nightstand. “What a coincidence…” He winds his other arm around Mikey’s torso, and with one swift movement he flips them over. “So is mine…”

* * *

“Will you stop scratching?” Mikey complains. Considering his wasted state when Sasha came home this time, he’s been surprisingly stable and harmonious for the duration of Sasha’s stay.

“Ey. It itches, alright? You're the one insisting I keep it so I'm damned well gonna scratch,” Sasha answers peevishly without looking up from the morning newspaper. 

“You don't like it?”

“I hate it. It itches, and makes me look old.” Sasha sips his coffee, absently petting the furry head sticking up over the edge of the table, belonging to the menace sitting in his lap.

“It suits you. You look very masculine with it,” Mikey tells him and reaches out to pet Sasha’s beard. Sasha wishes he would scratch instead. His beard has grown out multicoloured―white and slate gray―matching his increasingly long hair. No matter how much Mikey fawns over it, Sasha still hates it.

Sasha looks up to pin Mikey with a flat look. “I’m 195 centimeters tall and a 100 kilos of muscle. I don’t need a beard to make me look masculine. Hell, I could be dressed in drag and still look _masculine_. Don’t give me that shit.”

Mikey’s lips twitch in mirth. “True. But this makes you look _iconic_.”

“I'm allegedly immortal. I'll be iconic however I look. And it would be better to be immortal and look young, instead of looking like fucking _Santa_.” Sasha tears a small piece of ham off from his sandwich topping. 

Michael chuckles. “That's an interesting idea. Have you ever coloured your hair?”

“No.” Sasha moves his hand to serve Skit the ham.

“You shouldn't give Skit stuff like that. It isn't healthy.” Michael smiles, taking the sting out of the comment.

Sasha snorts. “Oh I'm sorry. I didn't know Skit is a health freak.” He looks down at the cat. “Did you not want this?” he asks, holding the ham just out of reach over Skittles’ nose. Skit extends a paw, curls it around one of Sasha’s fingers, and pulls his hand down to get the ham. Sasha might never officially have had any pets, but anytime he’d lived with animals he’s shared his bounty. More often enough, the living conditions had been awful and hadn’t allowed for real pet food to be bought anyway.

Mikey giggles and rests his cheek in a hand, supporting himself on the table with an elbow. Sasha lifts his gaze to see Mikey gaze at him with a dreamy smile.

“Eat your breakfast, Mikey. Just because I’m here doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. You need to take care of yourself.”

Mikey sniggers. “Yes, Vati,” he answers lightly and reaches out for his sandwich to finally start eating. Whatever ‘vati’ means, it also means total submission from Mikey’s side, and Sasha likes that. However, he’s got a creeping suspicion of what it really means, and if so, he doesn’t like it. He’s not in a hurry to find out if he’s right. “What colour was your hair before it turned gray?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't _know_?”

“Ey. I don't remember. I found my first gray hair when I was 19 or 20. It went downhill fast after that. But I think… darkish?”

“Dark- _ish_.”

“Yeah. Not black. Not quite dark brown. Ratty? Mousy? I honestly don't remember. I remember my brother and sister's hair colour. They had mousy brown hair. I probably did too.”

“You know what we should do? We should go down to Studio 77 and colour your hair and beard. Try out if it makes you look younger,” Mikey chirps between bites. 

Sasha eyes him sceptically and takes a bite of his own sandwich before feeding Skit another piece of ham. The cat is surprisingly non-obnoxious during mealtimes. He'd content himself by jumping up in a lap and sit there, vigilantly follow the proceedings while they ate. 

“I'll shave you when we get home,” Mikey coaxes. 

“Fair enough. On one condition. Make it hair colour that can be washed out within a couple of showers.”

“Deal.” Michael smiles brightly at him. 

Sasha decides to try his luck, now that Mikey’s all lovey-dovey. “Speaking of masculinity. I bought you some lingerie.”

Michael's eyebrows shoot up. “What? Like women's lingerie?”

“It'll no longer be women's lingerie if you put them on,” Sasha points out. 

“You expect me to wear them?”

“Not really, no. But I'm gonna keep jerking off to the thought of you wearing them.”

A delighted, fascinated smile creeps onto Michael's face. “Oh yeah? You've jerked off to the idea?”

“Many times, Mikey. Many, _many_ times.”

* * *


	23. Burning the Peace Laurel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Cas have left twin towns to go on an extended weekend in another state. Sam meets an old acquaintance...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING! MAJOR SPOILERS FOR VC AHEAD!**
> 
> In this chapter, we'll see something that will mostly remain hidden in VC, only mentioned but not shown, yet it affects _everything_. You'll most likely view some part of the plot differently when knowing what happened this night.
> 
> You already know Sam's battling with these thoughts, but here it will be in your face and it was frustrating to write. I gave Sam this streak of viewing things in black and white due to my pet peeve - people on Tumblr complaining about Sam being forced to work with his abusers and put himself aside. Whelp. Here it is, devoted to everybody who doesn't see long-term consequences and refuse to look at the bigger picture. The biggest hurdle Samifer has to jump.
> 
> This chapter has been Beta read by my awesome Betas [mizz_kitty21](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mizz_kitty21) and [YouCantKeepMeDown](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YouCantKeepMeDown). (And Grammarly.) Any remaining mistakes are my own.

### Sam’s Betrayal

_**A few weeks earlier… **(Early July)**** _

Sam steps out of the shop and stops mid-stride, heart lurching in his chest. Opposite the shop entrance, a familiar figure is leaned against the hood of a black sedan, looking at him. Waiting. Sam takes a deep breath and walks up to the waiting man. His heart races. His mind races. “I thought we weren’t going to do this anymore,” he states coldly. His emotions are a fucking jumble. Only about a third of them being what he _should_ be feeling. Mostly, though, he’s angry.

Michael gives him a small, lopsided smirk, reaches out to his side and opens the passenger door while lifting an eyebrow questioningly.

Sam steps to the side and gets in, buckling the seatbelt while Michael closes the door and goes around to the driver's side. Sam glares at him when he gets in. Michael's gaze sweeps over Sam before he smiles brightly. “Fuck, Sam, you shine more brightly each year. You look, you look really good. It's nice to see you again.”

Sam snorts. “You on the other hand, look like shit. What the fuck happened to you?” It’s not _quite_ true. Michael looks good. Shit, but he does and Sam hates him for it. But he’s thinner than he was. Paler. There are dark circles under his eyes. None of which takes away the fact that Michael is one of the most attractive men Sam knows in person.

Michael chuckles and shakes his head in amusement. The look in his eyes is fond and warm. And Sam hate hate hates that he’s… he can’t even finish the thought. It must be Stockholm syndrome or something. “Oh, you know. The usual. Crippling depression and anxiety. Hallucinations and paranoia. Guilt and fear. Normal stuff,” Michael jokes and gives him a wink.

Sam scowls deeper. It’s not funny. It’s really shitty humour. “Uh-huh. Is that why you suddenly forgot how to play hockey? I’ve never seen you play as badly as you did last season.” But what if it isn’t a joke…?

No.

Why would Michael _tell him_ if it wasn’t a joke? He wouldn’t.

Michael waves dismissively with his hand and starts the car. “Hockey is fun and all, but I don’t play for my own sake. I’ve always played for Luci so it’s been a bit rough keeping my motivation up. But you, on the other hand, I saw the derby and the following games. You play like a fiend. You’re really coming into your own.”

This is just weird.

Michael’s usually never mean during pick-ups, but this… this isn’t like it used to be. He’s too friendly. Too personal.

Sam draws breath to answer when his phone suddenly rings. He picks up the phone and sees it’s Cas, so he answers. “Hi, Cas… No. I ran into an old… friend. We’re getting reacquainted so I don’t know when I’ll be back. Are you alright with being alone tonight?... Um…” Sam throws a look at Michael who’s looking at the road but keeping his attention on Sam, listening intently. The thought that Michael might kill him breezes by in his brain. It makes sense that he would. Cas and Sam have travelled a few states over on an extended weekend to visit several museums with interesting exhibits. They're alone, which poses a risk. Luci ranted about the dangers before he let them go. Luci had things he needed to do in Angel Falls and Dean had also opted not to join them. So it's a perfect opportunity for Michael to do away with Sam.

What doesn't make sense is Sam's own behaviour. Like right now. Being ambiguous, making it sound like he's met an old hookup. “I'll be back before the last breakfast call,” he tells Cas. He should tell him he's been taken by Michael, but he doesn't. That makes zero sense. Why on earth would he do that? He knows the answer, but pretends to himself he doesn’t, because he doesn’t like it. “I know, Cas. I'm careful. Don't worry, I’ll be fine. ….Yeah. You too. Bye.”

“Castiel… That’s Luci’s… um…”

“Croat is the word you’re looking for,” Sam answers dryly. “Luce told me all about the _Porodica_. And yeah, he is.”

Michael side eyes Sam and runs his tongue thoughtfully over his teeth under closed lips. “So you know now, huh? And Castiel? Does he make a good Croatoan?”

“I guess.” Lucifer rarely uses the full Croatoan title, which makes Sam use croat too, despite Cas telling him it's derogatory. He feels a bit bad about it now, remembering how Dmitri had called Michael a great boss. Sam wonders if the bar is set so low, that not being called a slur is the measurement of that. Probably not. “I suggested to Luce that he make me too, but he flipped his shit about that.”

Michael chuckles. “Yes, he does have quite a temper on him. There's a risk with making you a Croatoan if you're not ready to live up to the job. We have a lot to say in who works directly below, and around us. But sometimes we're forced to let our personal staff participate in bigger operations, whether we want it or not. I personally think that you'd make one hell of a Croatoan. But not without a lot of high-risk training that would beat the purpose of having you made to protect you.” He turns the car to park by the sidewalk. “Here we are. Time to get out.”

Sam looks around. He'd expected to be taken out of the city to some remote location. But they're still close to the city center, just outside of the big park that is the closest thing to a forest this city can muster. Sam supposes it'll still work as place to murder someone unnoticed if that's what's about to happen. Or maybe there's an underground bunker for torture here somewhere. He gets out and shuts the door. “What do you plan to do with me this time?” Sam asks as soon as Michael is out and the car is locked.

Michael smiles. “Nothing you can't handle. Now, come on.” He leads the way into the park and Sam follows. His level of self-loathing is at an all-time high. He should be afraid, but he’s not. A little anxious, but not afraid. Angry as hell for all the wrong reasons. A bit―may God forgive him―excited. He hates how ~~eagerly~~ easily he came to Michael, just by seeing him standing there. Hates how the flopping in his belly isn’t entirely out of fright. And he hates how much he trusts Michael. Not to mention the burst of pride when Michael told him he’d make a good Croatoan. They walk to an all-night sandwich parlor on the outskirts of the park and Sam frowns in bemusement as Michael holds the door open for him. “You haven’t eaten for four hours and―” Michael starts to explain but is interrupted by his phone. Of course, he’d know that. Of course, he’d kept Sam under surveillance before the pick-up. Sam stands close enough to see Michael’s screen as he picks the phone from his pocket to silence what proves to be a reminder, reading; ‘Daddy will be disappointed in you if you don’t eat your dinner, baby boy.’

“Who’s your daddy?” Sam asks before he can think. He wants to facepalm at the ridiculousness of the phrase. He just can’t imagine anyone calling _Otac_ daddy.

Michael’s gaze snaps to his face, first with a brief deer-in-headlights look, then equally brief anger, to finally settle on a calculating expression that would be impossible to read if it wasn’t for the blush spreading across his cheeks. He’s quiet for a beat too long before he answers. “It’s, uh… you’ve met him once. You’d know him as Dmitri, but that’s not his name.”

“What _is_ his name?” The man had saved his life so Sam really wants to know.

“Aleksandr. Let’s order before we talk.” Michael wiggles his phone and grins like he’s putting on a cheery mask. “We need to eat. Like you saw, daddy will give me hell if I skip out on meals,” he jokes.

Sam’s getting very uncomfortable. Michael’s lost weight. He saw as much at first glance. Then he made that unsavory mental health joke and now he uses his phone to remind him to eat? Or a _croat_ will be disappointed in him? Is this some sort of mind game to manipulate him? It doesn’t feel that way and it’s freaking Sam out a bit.

They order sandwiches along with water and coffee and sit down at a small round corner table with a beautiful view of the park. The sandwiches are delicious. Sam’s hungry and eats with great enthusiasm.

“Why are we here?” Sam asks between one bite and another when Michael doesn’t speak.

“We need to talk.”

“About…?”

Michael’s eating quickly as if he wants to get the whole eating part over with, not like he’s enjoying it. He doesn’t answer until he’s swallowed down the last of his sandwich and downed all the water. Then he puts his plate and bottle on the empty table next to them and reaches back to take something from the back of his jacket. It’s a folder he must have had lodged in the hem of his jeans. “About this,” he says and throws the folder on the table. “Because I’m not the only one that will understand what that means, and I didn’t take those pictures,” he adds seriously.

Pictures.

Sam swallows down his bite, drinks some water, and reaches for the folder. He opens it, not knowing what to expect, and is met by a closeup of him and Luci kissing. Not a chaste peck either. It’s one of those deliciously filthy kisses and you can see both his and Luci’s tongues. Both their eyes are closed. Sam’s only had half his sandwich but he’s not hungry anymore. There are more pictures so Sam takes the stack out of the folder.

“Has Luci told you about our brother Leo?” Michael asks.

“He who was killed for falling in love?”

“That’s it. _Otac_ knew. I don’t know how. Leo told a few of us and one of us must have snitched. It wasn’t me. I swear, it wasn’t.” There’s a desperate edge to Michael’s voice that doesn’t go along with his expression. Like he’s trying to convince himself, not Sam.

Sam flips through the pictures while Michael talks. They’re taken two weeks ago when he and Luci were in the city, out drinking in a gay club, making out as hot and heavy as Luci would allow. There are a few close-ups. Luci giving him a mouthy neck-bite, Luci’s hand squeezing his erection through the jeans. He doesn’t do that very often. Sam lives for the moments Luce will touch him there.

“Luce told you about his dog? Baby?”

“Yes,” Sam answers distractedly. These are really friggin hot pictures.

“Before we left for Angel Falls I got strict orders to prevent Luci from repeating his mistake. I was ordered to _kill him_ if he misstepped again. Like I could ever do that. I regret ever introducing you to him.”

“You didn’t. We’d been friends for a couple of months before you got mixed up in it.” Sam sips his coffee, staring at the picture where Luci holds Sam’s wrists locked above his head with one hand, the other groping him, all while kissing his neck, pushing him against the wall.

“I didn’t?” Michael lets out a warbly breath, sounding relieved. Sam still isn’t looking at him, thoughts jumbled. He could jerk off to these pictures. He would, if he got to keep them.

“No. We saw each other on Dean’s debut game. I was in the audience. He stopped to speak with me, just like Dean had. You know how Luce is. Curious and a teasing shit all in one. Ran into him some time later in a café. You know the one beside Crossroads? He started talking to me... So that’s how we got started.”

“If I’d known…”

“You would have killed me. I know. Doesn’t matter. Are you planning to finish the job?”

“It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?”

Sam raises his head and stares at him skeptically.

Michael runs a tired hand through his hair. “Look, Sweetling, Luci means the world to me. I won’t kill you now because it wouldn’t do any good. And he’s preparing for war. Hopefully, the others don’t get that, but I do. With what he’s been up to―”

“What’s he been up to?” Sam takes one more sip of the coffee and puts his cup down.

“Doing lots of small _Porodica_ jobs, gathering Croatoans and other pawns around himself. Outwardly it might seem like he’s coming to his senses, but with that,” he gestures at the photos in Sam’s hand, “it tells a different story, and you two need to hide it better. The croat that took the photos wasn’t tailing you, and I’ve silenced him, but I have no way of knowing if he told anyone else. And if he stumbled upon you like that, anyone could. You gotta understand, Sweetheart, Luci doesn’t do those things. If it were you and me, we could fuck on a stage and neither _Otac_ nor my brothers would bat an eyelash, because they know I’m a fucking manwhore and you’re incredibly beautiful. But Lucifer isn’t like that. This is such a big step away from his usual behaviour it’ll set off alarm bells for almost everyone in our family.”

Sam hadn’t known Luci’s working for the _Porodica_ again, nor about the croats and pawns. He doesn’t want to show how jarred he is so he latches onto an old wound, making this about something it shouldn’t be. “You aren’t interested in fucking me. You made that abundantly clear when you broke me.” He hates how bitter he sounds.

Michael looks taken aback. “Oh, baby, that’s not even close to true. We made a deal, remember? I gave you a promise to not sexually abuse you in any way. That doesn’t mean I didn’t want you that way. When I made that promise, I could never foresee the longevity of our games, nor that stamina of yours. Usually, the light fades in people the longer it goes on, but not in you. In fact, it was the opposite. I’ve no interest in kids but somewhere between 16 and 17 you changed and I wanted to make love to you more than anything.”

“Make love, huh?” Sam could gag on the bitterness in his words.

“Mhm.”

“Well, you could've. You broke me. I asked you to stay, offered myself, but you left. So fuck you.”

“You know I couldn’t act on it. We’d made a deal, Sweetling. I’m a man of my word. You asking for it, especially not under those circumstances, doesn’t change that. It’s not a loophole big enough for me to crawl through.” Michael reaches out and plucks the photos out of Sam’s hands. He puts them back in the folder and stuffs the folder back in his jeans under his jacket.

Sam looks out of the window, heart hammering in his chest. He hates Michael. He hates that he’s missed him. He hates that he wants to look at him and that he wants to hear the compliments and praise Michael is prone to bestow on him. He hates that the worst nightmares about the man aren’t nightmares at all. He imagines telling _anyone_ that he’s missed Michael and imagines their reaction. They’d look at him like he was deranged. They’d pity him for being so broken. He _hates_ being pitied. Sam thinks Tom might understand. But Tom’s not in his life anymore. Lucifer… he doesn’t seem to consider the things Michael had done a big deal. He wouldn’t understand and Sam doesn’t want to tell him either. “I broke the deal.”

“Obviously. But talking about what we did with a бог брат and a Croatoan doesn’t really count, sweetheart.”

Sam shakes his head, stubbornly looking out at the dark park and the yellow lamps dotting the paths, mouth a thin, tense line. “No. I told someone else. Long ago. Someone unconnected.”

There’s a long silence following the confession.

“Why… why are you telling me that?” Michael asks at long last.

Sam looks back at him, taking his cup and sipping his coffee. “So get this. There was a time when I would have come to you, even if you removed every trace of coercion. If you’d lifted the threat to my loved ones I still would have come to the sound of your Audi. I’d still let you do what you did. All I needed was for the words you spoke to be true, and for you to stay a while afterwards.” It’s the biggest, dirtiest secret Sam has. How much part of him had started to like it. How he could find himself missing Michael. How Michael had unlocked something very dark in him. Stockholm syndrome. That’s what it has to be, right? Sam **hates** Michael for it. Feelings like these are supposed to fade with separation. He shouldn’t be feeling them years after.

“I’ve never lied to you, Sweetheart. I’ve meant every word. But if Luci has told you of our family, you know the rules. I can only have the hate, the fear, and the loathing. As soon as I feel something beautiful for someone, they must hate me, or death happens. Worse even. You really think Luci’s the only one to ever get attached? He isn’t. He’s just useless at hiding it. Like his damned dog. I loved my ‘Boy’ just as fiercely as he loved Baby, and cried my fucking heart out when I lost him. We’re supposed to, or the lesson won’t stick. Now, I was lucky. Boy died on a job, protecting me and Luce. He took several bullets to the chest, one of which hit his heart, and he died pretty fucking instantly. Baby wasn’t so lucky and Luce couldn’t hide what he felt. I’d learned my lesson already when I fell in love with the neighbour girl as a kid. _Otac_ made _me_ kill her. How do you think it made me feel? How do you think I’d feel if I had to do it again? I _couldn’t_ stay, Sam! I _needed_ for you to hate me.”

_NO!_

Sam does _not_ want to internalise what Michael’s saying as truth.

It must have shown on his face because Michael makes a frustrated face and takes a deep breath. He reaches out and takes Sam’s hand. “None of that matters anymore, Sweetheart. Lexi has convinced me that the civil war will happen no matter what I do, and I need to pick―”

“Lexi?”

“Aleksandr. I need to pick sides. There’s only one side to pick for me and it’s Luci’s, but he still won’t talk to me. I’ve tried calling him. We need to bury the hatchet to keep him safe, Sam. Nothing else matters.”

“Aleksandr is the Croatoan that saved my life, isn’t he? The one you sent for me?”

“Saved your life?”

Sam snorts, glaring coldly at Michael. “Yeah. After you rejected me I was about to kill myself. Temporary lack of judgement, by all means, but he stopped that from happening.” Sam’s not sure why he’s telling Michael this. Maybe he wants him to feel bad, but it’d require him to accept that Michael isn’t a monster, and he refuses to. He laces their fingers together, strokes Michael’s hand with his thumb at the same time as he glares hatefully.

Michael blinks, then turns his face away. “That man was born to be a lifesaver. He should have become a cop, or a war medic or something along those lines. I’ve never understood why someone born to be a hero ended up working for us. That’s what he does on his free time, you know? Saves lives and walks away before he can be credited for it.” He seems to be talking to himself, more than anything. He shakes himself and looks back at Sam. “I’m here to ask for a truce. We need to team up if Luci and you are going to survive.”

Luci’s words ring in Sam’s ears.

‘ _We’re going to need every ally we can get from my family. They’re all dangerous and protective people. I don’t love all of them as much, but I will still count them as family as long as they accept my choice to have you. Even Mikey._ Especially _Mikey, should he ever come around. Michael has been my best friend and companion for as long as I can remember. He was there for me in the aftermath of every traumatic experience I’ve ever had, growing up. He was there for me after the first time I killed, he held me when nightmares woke me up, he comforted me after my dog died, he’s forsaken his own wants and needs for me countless of times. Very much like Dean’s done for you. If he ever rebels against_ Otac _I'll forgive him in a heartbeat. He's the best ally we could get._ ’

“No. Fuck you, Michael. You had your chance.” Sam gets up from the chair, releasing Michael’s hand, and strides towards the exit. He goes outside. The night is mild and pleasant. He knows which direction the hotel is but he doesn’t walk towards it. Instead, he walks into the park, veering off-path into the unlit grove of trees. The lamplight doesn’t reach here, but silvery moonlight filters in between trees to light bushes and grass.

Gods, he’s so pissed off! It’s not fair! Why should he forgive?! Why is it always he who has to fold?

He always forgave dad. Dad was sick. He remembers one time when dad had vanished for a week and finally called home. “ _Hi, son. I just wanted to tell you I’m in Phoenix. I’ll be coming home as soon as I can find a ride._ ” Sam had asked him what he was doing there. There had been rough breathing over the line, and then, whispered with a trembling voice, “ _I don’t know…_ ” Sam remembers the pure terror in dad’s voice when he spoke. Dad was sick. He hallucinated and saw things that made him do things he wouldn’t have done otherwise. Sam remembers thinking, when he was a kid, that maybe dad was possessed by a demon or something. And that’s why he did those horrible things and couldn’t remember afterwards. Now he’s old enough to know there are no demons, and the alcohol mixed with the medication he got, along with severe, untreated PTSD, caused the things that was wrong with dad. Sam loved dad. Still does. He misses him.

Sam forgave Dean every time Dean went ballistic. It happened. They’d had fights. Dean lashed out when cornered or provoked. Dean could be the biggest jerk on the planet sometimes. But Sam forgave. Dean is also the most loyal, loving and caring, devoted person Sam knows. Of course he’ll forgive him any misdoings.

Sam forgives Lucifer. For every time Luci lashes out, acts like the бог брат he’s raised to be, and for not being there for Sam when Sam needed him to. He forgives him for every time he has to feel fear, or get a jarring slap in reprimand. It’s not even something he thinks about - it just _is_.

But Michael?

The years of Michael’s abuse have ruined something inside of Sam―planted a seed of darkness he’s always battling to control. Sure, he could forgive the torture. But he can’t forgive the discovery of liking it. He could forgive the threat to his loved ones, but not the rejection when he offered himself.

He can forgive the nightmares. The ones when he’s young again, when it all started. When it was not yet ambiguous what he felt. He can forgive waking up crying in fear and residual pain, when the memory of touch repulsed him and Michael’s words still sounded like lies in his ears. But he can’t forgive the other dreams. The ones when he wakes up with a rage-driven hunger, someone else’s imaginary blood still sticking to his skin and Michael’s smiling kisses and loving embrace lingering more real than reality. He can’t forgive the dreams when someone else is strung up, hooked to electrodes, while _Sam’s_ holding the flip-switch, flipping it with fierce satisfaction at the screams, and Michael isn’t even in the dream.

Sam’s got demons floating in his head, vipers slithering in his bones, telling him it’s good when it’s bad. He **HATES** that! Michael made him discover this side of himself and he’s been struggling with it for years. It’s not who he wants to be. Who he needs to be to respect himself.

Sam seethes, making his way deeper into the grove. There are no people here now after dark. He wants to tell himself that he doesn’t know why he chose to walk this way, but it’s a lie and the answer why chooses this moment to make itself known as he’s suddenly harshly slammed chest first into a tree trunk, a knife glinting and nicking the skin on his throat. “Why did you reveal to me that you broke our deal, Sweetling?” Michael breathes into his ear.

“You can’t figure it out, huh?” A loophole big enough for Michael to crawl through, that’s why.

Sam’s yanked off the trunk and spun around to stare into Michael’s face. There’s not much light filtering in, but enough to highlight half his face in whitish blue from the moonlight, casting the other half in shadow. His visible eye burns intensely, unlike the mildness that had been there before. It’s almost like another person standing there, gripping his jacket lapels. Sam glares defiantly and licks his lips unconsciously.

Michael pulls him in, stops a mere inch from his lips, but only for a beat before he kisses Sam.

_FUCKING FINALLY!_

Michael’s wearing a double shoulder holster under his jacket. Sam knows this because his own hands go _everywhere_. He kisses back greedily, devotedly, ecstatically. He pushes Michael’s jacket off his shoulder because he wants to see his demon’s teeth. The folder falls out of the hem of Michael’s jeans, landing somewhere near the jacket and none of them cares. Michael kisses like he needs it to live and, shit, but so does Sam. His fingers find their way inside Michael’s shirt. He digs his nails into skin and pulls, fingers getting sticky, drawing blood. Michael doesn’t even flinch.

Michael's hands are just as demanding, but without the claws. His mouth leaves Sam's to suck and lick at the neck, leaving Sam to bite into his neck and shoulder. Michael's got such beautiful dark hair. It's longer than the last time Sam saw him, curling around his ears and in the nape of his neck. Sam twists a hand in it and bends his head back. The knife digs into the skin by Sam's waist but he doesn't care for the warning. He turns Michael around and leans them towards a tree so he can grind. They’re both breathing rough and wanton.

He lets go of Michael's hair to kiss him again. Shit, but Michael can kiss. “I _HATE_ you,” Sam lies against his mouth. He hates that he doesn't.

Michael chuckles breathily. “That makes two of us, sweetheart. I hate me too.”

No. Sam doesn't want that. Only good people self-loathe. Michael’s not allowed to be good. He’s a monster, nothing else.

He strokes Michael all over, over the guns, grabbing at his ass, over his belly, his hair, sucking hungrily on his tongue. God, he's so angry-horny-desperate for this. He's wanted this for five fucking years! “Put that fucking knife away. Are we fighting or fucking?”

“Both, I think?” Michael jokes and shifts to suck on Sam's earlobe. He puts the knife away somehow, because in the next instant he's fumbling with Sam's fly and there's nothing in his hands.

Sam's not usually one for risking public indecency, but he's out of fucks to give. He's pressing himself so hard against Michael, that the older man has trouble getting his belt and fly open. An impulse has him pushing away and taking a swing with his fist. He hits Michael's nose, but Michael jerks and turns his head in time to evade full force. Sam dives right back in again to kiss. Michael lets him, but grabs his jacket lapels and twists them around with a jerk, reversing their position. Michael kisses like he means it, like he doesn't notice any of the scratch marks, bite marks, and bruises Sam heedlessly inflicts on him. It has to hurt. It _has_ to. Sam _wants_ to hurt him.

Michael kicks his legs apart, making him glide down the tree trunk so Michael is the taller one.

_Yes. Better._

Sam's brain isn't forming coherent thoughts. It's all a primal, instinct-driven roar. He scrambles to open Michael's belt and gasps when Michael gets a firm hand around his erection, pulling it out and starts stroking it. “I _hate_ you,” Sam repeats and finally gets Michael's pants open so he can reciprocate.

“I know,” Michael pants.

They don't stop kissing while they jerk each other off. Sam can taste blood. A sweep of the tongue on Michael's upper lip reveals he's got a nosebleed. “Did I break it?” Sam gasps into Michael's mouth. They're both starting to sweat and Michael smells and tastes like home.

“No.”

Michael lets go of him and falls to his knees in front of him. If Sam had had any brain cells left, they would fry when Michael takes him into his mouth, bobbing his head up and down. Sam buries his hands in Michael's hair and starts thrusting. Michael's letting him fuck his face and Sam hates that it's too dark for him to get a good visual. Michael's such a beautiful man. “So friggin gorgeous,” Sam says, realizing too late that he said it out loud. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters except for here and now. He lets his head fall back against the trunk and closes his eyes. “Michael.” He moans. “Come on, Michael. Fuck!”

He doesn't warn before he comes. Michael pulls off with a sputter but keeps jerking him off through it. Then he gets to his feet, grabs Sam by the lapels and throws him to the ground with a leg sweep.

Sam lands on his back with an ‘ouff’, then Michael's on him, flipping him over and pulling his ass up by the hips. Sam's barely got time to react before he feels a tongue probing his ass. He relaxes with a groan and lets Michael eat him out to his heart's content.

Soon enough there's a finger joining the tongue, then another one. Sam rests his head on his forearm and moans every time Michael strokes his prostate. Michael takes his time opening him up before he sits up. Sam hears a condom wrapper break and turns his head to watch as Michael rolls it down over his erection. He takes another pack from his pocket. It proves to be lube. He lubes himself up, pours the rest over Sam's pucker and lines himself up. He presses in. Sam relaxes to take him but presses back when he goes to slow. He wants it to hurt. It doesn't hurt nearly enough as it should.

“Fuck, Michael, fucking take me!” Sam demands. He looks over his shoulder to see the moon backlighting Michael like a halo, casting his face in shadow, making his eyes appear like black holes. Angel and devil all in one. It shouldn't be as hot as it is.

Michael chuckles darkly. He grips Sam's hips and starts fucking. If someone passes by on the path outside the grove they'll surely hear the unmistakable sounds of bodies slapping together. Sam keeps spouting filthy, angry encouragement. He hopes for any passerby not to come investigate. He thinks Michael will shoot them if they do. If he doesn't, Sam _will_. He's dreamed of this too frigging long to be interrupted.

Michael grabs the neckline of Sam's jacket and pulls. “Take it off, sweetling, and the shirt too. I want skin.”

If Sam was in a state where he could feel shame, he'd be ashamed of how eagerly he scrambles to obey. But he's not. Michael doesn't take his own shirt off but he lifts it over his head to hook it behind his neck, then lies down on top of Sam's back, forcing Sam to lie down fully. He's a furnace of warmth―a stark contrast to the cold, slightly damp grass underneath.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you shine so bright I can hardly look at you without burning my eyes,” Michael husks into his ear. He's framing Sam's head and shoulders with his arms, the guns hang from the holster, further boxing him in. “You're mine, Sweetling. All mine.”

Sam lets out a low pitched keening. A nonverbal YES to the claim. He arches his back to get closer. Michael mouths, kisses, and licks at his neck and shoulder, grinding his hips in a circular motion. Ever so often he hits the prostate. It's fucking good and Sam wants more-closer-faster. Jeezus but Michael knows what he's doing. He's quick to adapt to every positive reaction he gets, yet takes what he wants for himself at the same time.

“That's it, sweetheart. That's what I want. Give me all your sounds. They belong to me.”

They're the same, Michael and him. Sam figured it out when he was around seventeen. Sam doesn't need to be ashamed with Michael―he already knows him. They've been through too much. Michael's seen him at his lowest. They're the same. Luci and Sam are two parts of a whole, but Sam and Michael are the same part. Sam can fucking feel it.

It's not a position made for rough fucking but Michael manages, getting rougher the more Sam moans and grunts. This isn't a hookup, this is a demon possession rendering him soulless, thoughtless, free in the most unholy of ways. If God would look into Sam's heart right now He'd be abhorred at the twisted, raw triumph he’d see. A vicious snarl that holds no kindness, only ecstasy.

He _hates_ Michael. He hates him because he wants Michael to break him, take him, shape him into something he can’t stand to see in the mirror. He hates him, because somewhere along the road, Michael already did those things. “Whose am I?” There’s no filter between thoughts and words.

“Luci’s.”

The _NO_ that comes out of Sam’s mouth isn’t a word, it’s a roar. He pushes up on straight arms intending to dislodge Michael. Michael elbows him in the bend of his elbows, making him fold and fall back down.

Michael chuckles breathily. “Everything I own belongs to Luce too. Including you, baby. You're mine and he can borrow you.”

_Yes. Better._

Sam twists his neck so they can kiss. Michael’s red-hot mouth is a gash of wonderful corruption, drawn to Sam’s invite like a magnet. He hates that he loves the way Michael tastes. Hates that he smells like good and right and home and fucking _safe_ in the worst of ways. Hates how his stomach keeps flopping in elated thrills. Hates how the goosebumps dotting his skin aren’t from fear or the night chill. “I hate you,” he mumbles garbled against Michael’s tongue. Lies. All lies.

“Mhm,” Michael agrees, gets his arm around Sam’s throat and forces him to arch up not to choke. He can barely breathe, choked by an arm and smothered with a kiss and _fuck fuck fuck_ if Michael keeps this up he’s gonna come _again_.

Michael keeps it up.

Sam sees stars.

He screams right into Michael’s greedy mouth, unaware of doing so. Michael grinds, rolling his hips to brush his prostate, milking him through it. Sam's come is a warm contrast to the grass under his stomach.

Once Sam's nothing but sated goo, Michael holds himself up to fuck him in earnest, mumbling, choking out sweet endearments until he comes. Always with the sweet endearments.

He pulls out, removes and ties a knot around the condom, and throws it away carelessly. Then he pulls up his pants. He flips Sam over, takes something out of his pocket―a handkerchief―uses it to dry Sam’s dick and belly, then the blood from his own nose, puts it back into his pocket and tugs Sam’s underwear and pants up before lying down beside Sam.

Sam reaches out to tug Michael to lie half on top of him, head rested against his shoulder. Michael slides his arm and leg over Sam and kisses his chest. They're both drenched in sweat. There once was a time when Sam loathed Michael touching him. When he'd felt violated. That had changed over the years and he hates himself for it. He'd started to wish for this right here. He can't put a name on it. It's not love. Not as such, and not in the way he's used to thinking of it. More like a kinship.

Sam sees the gray square of the folder lying on the grass four feet away. “I wonder if Luce considers this cheating,” he muses to himself. He hasn't had a single thought of Luce while they were fucking. He hates himself because of it, but is currently too content to be bothered.

“Do you have any reason to suspect he would?”

“I don't know. He's weird about stuff like this. He keeps pushing me to fuck around. But then he'll selectively blow a fuse for some people.”

Michael chuckles. “Let me guess… Rainsborough?”

Sam sucks in a breath. “You know about him?”

“Of course. I kept tabs on you back then.”

“But you never mentioned him when you threatened my loved ones?”

“Why bother? Those I did mention were enough to get you to come to me. I told you, I don’t actually want to hurt people you care about. But tell me, was I right about Luci’s jealousy?”

“Yeah… But he doesn’t know who Tom is. Just that he exists. How did you know?”

Michael snorts in amusement. “Because Rainsborough breaks your pattern. He’s nothing like your usual lovers, and I’ve seen you together. Back when you spent half a week with him at the Victoria hotel. Luci can be very possessive and Thomas is a real threat. You love him fiercely enough that in a choice between him and Luci, Luci might draw the shorter straw. I wouldn’t recommend giving up Thomas’ identity to Luci or Thomas might not live for very long.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Sam stroked his hands over Michael's sides and back, over the holsters. On impulse, he takes one of the guns out of its holster. Michael doesn’t try to stop him. It’s the same golden Taurus Michael once aimed at Lucifer. Sam flips the safety off and puts the barrel against Michael’s forehead. “You know how easy it would be to kill you now?”

“I wish you would. It would make things a lot easier for me.” Michael doesn’t even tense up. He’s lax and oozing of contentment.

“You don’t think I could?”

Michael chuckles. “I’m sure you could. But I don’t think you will. I’m never that lucky. Plus, you’d have to deal with a very angry, vengeful boyfriend. Honestly? I don’t even think Luci could protect you if Lexi gets into his head to destroy you.”

Sam hates himself for the protective wave of feelings washing over him. Michael’s not supposed to long for death. It implies caring. He flips the safety back on and puts the gun back in its holster. “You’re right. I won’t. Boyfriend, huh? The croat? I thought you weren’t allowed to have boyfriends.”

“In theory, we are. We’re just not allowed to give a shit about them.”

Sam scoffs. “If you were fucking, it was no wonder he thought you’re a good boss,” he says derisively.

“We weren’t, back then. I forced myself on him after Luci and I fought over you. Fuck, but I was a mess... I was intent on killing him afterwards. But I couldn't pull the trigger. Instead, I latched onto him like a leech. Forcing him into a close, sexual relationship. Turned out, he wasn't unhappy about it. Not until I sent him away.”

“You sent him away,” Sam states flatly. He can’t decide if he’s more pissed off about Michael forcing himself onto somebody he held power over, or sending the guy away. _Rejecting_ him, like he had Sam.

“I had to. For his safety… He came back two years later and now he refuses to leave.”

Sam wants Michael to stop talking. He fears he’s getting honesty he doesn’t want. He grunts. “You up for round two?”

“I would be. But I only had one condom and lube pack on me.”

“So? Go in bare.”

Michael shifts, then heaves himself up to kiss Sam. “I’d love to, baby, but I’m too sober to be stupid enough to bareback someone I care about. I’ve fucked other people since I last got myself tested.”

Another testament to care Sam doesn’t want to acknowledge. “I hate you.”

“I know.”

Sam kisses Michael again, to make sure he stops talking. He’s a monster. Still denying Sam what he wants. Trying to fool Sam that he’s somehow human and compassionate.

Sam hates himself for staying in the park, making out until it gets too cold. They remain undisturbed. Michael drops him off outside the hotel afterwards. He gets out, walks around the car and opens the door for Sam. “Sam, about the truce―”

Sam breaks him off, vehement anger welling up again like it never left. “No. I’ll never forgive you, Michael. No fucking truce. We don’t fucking _need_ you!” He spits in Michael’s face. Michael doesn’t even flinch when the saliva hits him. Sam shakes his head and strides into the hotel without looking back.

He’s angry for all the wrong reasons. He reeks of his and Michael’s mixed sweat. Michael and Luci smell the same. They fucking smell the same. Eerily much. That’s why Michael’s scent is home to him. Fuck. He should tell Luci about this encounter. That Michael―despite Luci’s assurances that it would never happen―has come around and is ready to take their side. But he won’t.

He won’t.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment! I'm really anxious about hearing your reaction to this chapter.
> 
> Also, before you point out that Mikey told Sasha he'd only had sex with one person he loves - he lied. He does that sometimes.


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